


Of skies and stars in our eyes

by wondernerd



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Has Low Self-Esteem, Arthur Morgan Lives, Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Horsey shenanigans, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Racism, Repressed Feelings, Slow Burn, Some Descriptions of Violence, a bit of this and that, arthur morgan is awkward, but stuff still happens, can i tag the horses?, charles smith is a saint, ill tag more characters as they come along i guess, just two cowboys bein gay, probably, taima - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 83,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23021695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wondernerd/pseuds/wondernerd
Summary: “Was thinkin’… Turkeys make funny sounds,” Arthur rubs his face, trying to keep himself from giggling again like a fool. Charles, from his spot on the ground an arm’s length from Arthur, stares at him. Arthur stares back, a panicking alarm bell prancing its way into his mind. That was probably a stupid thing to say.Then, Charles bursts into his own fit of giggles as he takes in a shaky breath and exhales it as a surprisingly accurate imitation of a turkey gobble.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 76
Kudos: 331





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this goddamn game makin me write SO MANY goddamn words because i love these two gay cowboys so goddamn much.  
> anyway structure? haven't heard of her. I just have some thoughts and feeling about this game and wanted to write them down and share them because why not?  
> i haven't written anything like this, and definitely not this long, ever. so pls be kind. or be rude, i gotta learn somehow right?
> 
> there will be multiple chapters but i think they work more like a collection of one-shots that all fit inside the story. i just don't feel like publishing them all as one-shots in like a series work because can you imagine having to tag and title everything? no thank u, i just want to share my take on this amazing story that i have been thinking about nonstop since i played the game. basically everything that happens outside of what i write just assume happens the same as it does in canon (with maybe like, one exception)
> 
> i haven't decided how closely i am going to stick to canon in regards to TB and the canon ending. do i want to be extra angsty and mean? or do i want to spare ya'll some tears? a little bit of both? guess we'll find out soon enough.

“We ain’t ever talked much, you and me” Arthur says in between blowing hot air into his numb hands, “how long you been with us now? Five, six months?”

“Something like that” Charles responds, with a huff of air visible in the cold. A gust of wind sends them both deeper into their coats for a moment, horses snorting against the frost starting to line their nostrils. The deer strapped to their saddles have long gone cold, though Arthur knows in a few hours the meat will be a source of warmth for everyone. The thought of real food is a respite, and the salted offal Pearson gave them could go to hell. 

Arthur chuckles, “Bet you didn’t expect this”

“What?”

“Any of this, the Blackwater mess… being up here…” Arthur shrugs, trailing off. The gang had been in more than a few tight spots, sure, but never to the point of having to flee to the mountains in the middle of winter; in the middle of a blizzard, no less. He still feels the weight of Jenny and Davey, interred into frozen ground in graves too shallow. He wonders how many more they'll have to dig, if they'll have to etch Sean and Mac's names onto haphazard wooden crosses. 

“Sooner or later a job’s going to go wrong,” he shrugs in response, “nature of life.”

“Just thought you might have moved on by now.”

“You want me to move on?”

“No, no, not at all, I just...” Of course, he doesn’t want Charles to move on. He’s one of the most competent men Arthur’s ever met. “I know you could run it alone, no problem.”

Next to him, Charles exhales in another puff of visible breath. “I did that for a long time, I’m done with it. Always wondering if someone’s going to kill you in your sleep.”

“I still wonder that most nights” Arthur chuckles again, recalling maybe one too many drunk fights and arguments with his more… aggressive brothers in arms.

“I reckon you’re okay,” Charles chuckles, and Arthur thinks that it may be the closest thing to a laugh he’s heard out of the man since before they left Blackwater. “It suits me. Sure, I could fall in with another gang, but Dutch… you know… Dutch is different.” And yes, Arthur knows, he wasn’t so dumb as to not notice the way those with darker skin were often treated, especially by white men in power.

“Oh yes, Dutch is certainly different,” Arthur responds, a heavier sort of chuckle with the weight of 20 years’ worth of history in it.

“He treats me fair. Most of you do. And for a feller with a black father and an Indian mother, that ain’t normally the case.” Charles’ shoulders tense, the same sort of heavy tone underlining his words, and Arthur tries not to think too hard about the cruelty some folk must have thrown at him for his appearance.

“Well, we need you now. More than ever.” He knows that the mess they ran away from in Blackwater won’t be forgotten soon and will probably get worse before it gets better. Hopefully, they don’t have to lose any more lives over it. Besides, Arthur likes Charles. He's about as good a man as one can be in this life. Arthur likes to think he's come to know whether or not someone will watch your back or stab you in it, and Charles seems like the type to be trusted. 

“Good,” Charles replies, and Arthur’s lips quirk into a small smile.

They chat amicably for a bit. Charles asks him how long he’s been with the gang and Arthur tells him a brief history. _Why ain’t you run off?_ Arthur had been with Dutch for twenty odd years now. He’d spent the better part of his life with him and Hosea, he couldn’t even imagine ever running off. “Dutch saved me, saved most of us. That’s why we need to stick with him through this. He always sees us right.” Arthur can’t really see now how they’re going to get out of this situation they’ve found themselves in, but it’s not his job to think of that. He has faith in Dutch, as he always has. As he’s always had to, because he definitely ain’t smart enough to think his way out of his own messes and troubles. He’d have been dead a long time ago if it weren’t for Dutch Van der Linde.

They’re quiet for a minute, the winter wind biting at Arthur’s cheeks and nose. This goddamn cold.

“How’s that new horse?” Charles asks, changing the subject.

“He’s alright, he’ll do for now.” The sturdy bay under him was a welcome find in the Adler’s barn, though he’s no replacement for ol’ Boadicea. His heart clenches, missing his old mare dearly. They’d gotten separated in the chaos of escaping Blackwater and Arthur feared the worst- she would have come back to him when he called if she could. The fact that she didn’t, no matter how loud he whistled and called… well…

“Have you given him a name yet?” Charles continues, glancing back at the painted bay.

Arthur thinks about it for a second. He hadn’t, yet. Maybe he should ask Mrs. Adler, considering it was her horse before. Actually, he wonders if maybe he should offer the horse back to the woman. Though, thinking of it further, it’s unlikely she’d want to speak to Arthur or keep the horse, a reminder of her life with her departed husband. Arthur ponders it, thinking of a name on the spot. Just a placeholder, until he thinks of something better.

“Think I’ll call him Howard.”

Charles snorts a laugh beside him and glances up at Arthur, an amused smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Arthur smirks a back and shrugs. Horses with people names have always given him a chuckle. 

“I appreciate you lettin’ me take Taima the other night.”

“She’s a strong one. It’s been as hard on the horses as on the rest of us,” Charles’ voice is laced with affection for his own mare and Arthur smiles a little. Here’s a man that understands and appreciates horses, a true testament to his good nature. “I don’t know what Dutch would do if something happened to the Count.”

“Same with Bill and Brown Jack. He’s a drunk, miserable bastard but… he loves that horse.” They cross over a small stream, the horses tilt their ears back against what is surely _very_ cold water, but they’re out of it soon enough. Taima nearly trips on a rock when they reach the other side and Arthur catches Charles’ soft reassurance for his mare as she gets her feet steady beneath her.

“I hope they all make it,” he says and Arthur agrees. The horses are as much family in the gang as their riders.

“You know, I tried to ride the Count once… bucked me faster than a bull.” Arthur had been a bit younger back then, when Dutch had ridden in on a fresh, pure white Arabian with flared nostrils and a mean look in his glacier eyes. Dutch had beamed at his new steed, saying ‘This, gentlemen, is a horse fit for a leader. Best of his kind. Good character, you know he bucked everyone else except me at the auction yard? He knows a strong man when he sees one.’ And Arthur had scoffed, thinking it was probably the stallion’s bold look and esteemed breed that drew Dutch to him. He’d challenged Dutch then, saying if that was true then he should have a gallop on Dutch’s new horse, prove himself capable. He’d been a younger fool then, with ideas of being Dutch's most dependable right hand man. He’d been an even bigger fool when he didn’t even swing his leg over the saddle before he was back on the ground, looking up at the very smug face of Dutch. “Won’t take nobody but him,” he finishes as the run-down cabins and buildings of Colter come into view.

They hitch the horses just near Pearson’s station, announcing the arrival of food. “Oh and, thank you, for showing me how to use the bow properly.” Arthur nods towards Charles, who shrugs.

“Only showed you a little. Takes a lifetime to master.” Charles gives him a small smile then, and Arthur returns it with his own. He wants to say something else, to ask Charles to teach him more, maybe, when things calm down a bit, but Pearson has spotted them as they enter the alcove with the butcher’s table and cooking fire set up.

“Well, well, well! Just drop it down in here.” Pearson’s voice is harsh and gruff after having talked to Charles for the past few hours while they were hunting, and Arthur realizes how much he’d actually enjoyed talking and listening to him. Most of the men, including Arthur himself, have hardened voices that sound a bit closer to gravel than to anything civilized, but Charles’ voice has a different quality, a low timbre that reminds Arthur more of honey than gravel.

The pair move into the kitchen, warming themselves at the burning coals. Arthur antagonizes Uncle, who’d been sitting on a bench with a bottle in his hand, and tells him to get lost. Arthur was too tired to deal with Uncle right now, he didn’t think he’d ever be _not_ tired of dealing with the old man, and he sighs as his hands start to regain their feeling from the warmth of the coals.

“I see you boys got on just fine,” Pearson says from the other side of the fire, he offers a bottle to Arthur, “have a drink.”

“Charles is a wonder,” Arthur says as he accepts the bottle, and feels the weight of Charles’ eyes land on him. He takes a sip from the bottle and it burns as it reaches his throat. He hands it to Charles next to him as he sucks in a breath through his teeth. “ _Jesus,_ what is that?”

“Navy rum, sir! Keeps you sane, it does!” Pearson barks a laugh and Arthur rolls his eyes.

They eventually move to skin the deer, and Charles excuses himself, saying that it’s no job for a man with a burnt hand. Arthur hopes he goes off and actually rests, instead of finding some other job to do. As Charles walks off, Arthur gets to work, looking forward to a hearty meal at last.

A few hours later, and the supper is the brightest they’d had since fleeing Blackwater. Pearson doesn’t mess up the venison, for once, and the warm food that didn’t come from a can seems to lift everyone’s spirit, just a little. Arthur is sitting with Hosea near the fire as Ja\vier sings a gentle tune, some of the girls singing along. They’re all together in the main cabin, brought together by the promise of food and drink. Pearson offers Arthur more of his Navy Rum and Arthur indulges himself in a few gulps, feeling the burn of the liquor go all the way down into his fingers. He looks around, smiling a little to himself as the people around him chatter and sing and drink. A little worm of satisfaction warms his heart, knowing he helped make everyone’s day a bit better.

He turns his head around, looking for the other person responsible for the- dare he say it- merriment. Charles is sat a bit further away, closer to the window nearest the door, as if to keep watch, still working even when everyone else is at rest. He wants to go over to him, to ask Charles to join the crowd and have a drink, tell a story, sing. He’s probably a good singer, voice as calm and smooth as it is. Should ask him. Arthur is trying to form the right words to catch Charles’ attention when Uncle, already plastered, boisterously gets up and yells for his banjo. There’s a collective groan from the group and Dutch gets up from his seat in the middle of the room, announcing that the night is late and that everyone had better rest up, get ready for the next day’s trek out to find the O’Driscolls. By the time Arthur looks back towards the window, Charles is already gone. Arthur goes off, tiredness seeping into his limbs as he eventually lays down to rest.

That night when Arthur sleeps, he dreams of quiet footsteps in the snow and a honey smooth voice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> charles and arthur go hunting for bison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this ones a bit short but i feel like this moment gets written enough times by enough authors. hopefully i did it justice.  
> also i'd like to mention that i hold nothing but respect for native americans and i want to do them justice and i don't want to step on any toes. if there are any issues in anything i have written, historical accuracies or otherwise, please point them out. im trying to be vague because the game itself doesn't get too deep into the whole issue but... man, it's a deep issue and it's not the focus of the story so there we go.

Charles’ rage was infectious, seeping into Arthur the same way smoke floods a room when the chimney is blocked. The two poachers are standing up now, squared up and defensive at the intruders in their camp.

“Calm down, you black or red bastard, whatever the fuck you are,” one of them says, snarling at Charles.

" _Did you shoot them?!”_ Charles demands again, and for a second Arthur is surprised at the raw anger and emotion in his voice. He had never seen Charles act anything but calm and steady, even in the middle of a shootout or a robbery. Now he was tense, shoulders nearly trembling in his fury, and Arthur knows what comes next before it happens. Charles was a stick of dynamite, and the fuse was about to reach its end.

“Yeah, we shot those bison and we’ll shoot you too if you don’t _get_ ,” the first poacher says, his hand drifting to his holstered weapon. _Too late, pal,_ Arthur thinks. He sees Charles exhale a breath.

“What business is it of yours anywa-” the second one starts, interrupted by the blast that rings through the air, smoke trailing out of Charles’ sawed-off shotgun, red mist in the place where the first poacher’s head had once been. The man falls back, stumbling, whimpering something about his family, fear in his eyes as Charles turns to him like a wolf to its cornered victim.

“ _It’s THAT business of mine”_ Charles roars, and for a second Arthur is reminded of a tornado he saw in the distance once, when they were traveling country so wide and flat he could see for miles. The wind that day had been calm, gentle in its whispers- until it turned and became the type of force to rip trees from the earth and carve mountains out of stone. He looks at Charles and is reminded of that whirlwind. 

“Step back, Charles, I’ll get you some answers,” Arthur says, moving forward. He glances at his companion as he passes and he wonders, if it were colder, would steam be coming off of him? He turns to the poacher, who’s nearly in tears as if he’s finally realizing that this may be the end of him.

Arthur’s fist crushes into the man’s face, and he gets his answers alright. The poacher had tried to pull off the ol’ “I don’t know what you’re talking about” trick as if his friend didn’t literally just confess to shooting the bison. Fist meets face again and Arthur hears the distinctive sound of a nose breaking as blood spurts out, staining his fist and- _goddamnit these were new pants._

“O-Okay! We were paid to kill as many as we could. To make it look like it was Indians,” Arthur’s grip tightens. To make it _look-_ why the hell- that didn’t even make sense. Arthur had listened to Charles as they rode into the heartlands, learned about the importance of bison to Charles’ people, how revered and basically sacred they were. Indians wouldn’t do this. Things start to make more sense when the poacher sobs something about a man out of Fort Wallace being behind it all. Behind him, Arthur hears Charles growl.

“ _Just kill him, Arthur,”_ and Arthur exhales a tense breath as he ignores the man’s pleads and pushes him down into the ground, fingers easily tighten around the man’s throat until his eyes glaze over and the life leaves his body.

Arthur stands, looking down with a detached look. _It’s what he deserved._ Charles echoes his thought and turns his back, taking a few steps away from the camp. Arthur looks back, and his heart squeezes in his chest.

Now, Arthur may be a simple-minded fool, but he knew enough to see the truth of the implications of the dead bison. This was an attack on the Indian’s lives- their entire culture, their very existence. White men had come into _their_ land, raped and pillaged and killed and stolen everything, and they were still doing their damned hardest to eradicate the people that had called this country their home for since long before Europeans decided it was theirs to take. He walks over to Charles, trying to calm his breathing and- perhaps for the first time in recent history- be the calming presence for his company.

“You good?” He asks, glancing at Charles. His eyes are distant and unfocused, and his brows are furrowed into a deep frown, casting lines on his forehead that Arthur finds himself wishing he could soothe. The muscles in his jaw are twitching, like there’s a thousand things to say and yet, nothing to say at all. Arthur reaches out a hand and lightly squeezes Charles’ shoulder. He wishes he had the right words but, well, words ain’t his forte.

His face is still tense, but Charles brings a hand up to where Arthur’s is on his shoulder, squeezing a little before letting go and briefly closing his eyes as he takes a deep breath. He turns and levels Arthur with a look that almost punches the air out of his lungs.

The thing is, for as long as Arthur's known him, Charles has been mostly stoic- quiet in everything he does. The only tell that there was anything going on in his head at all was his eyes, which Arthur had only realized in recent weeks. Placidly watching his surroundings, observing patterns the way one might observe birds, Charles' eyes don't often betray his emotions, but they are always _searching_. In this moment, Charles’ eyes are more full of emotion than Arthur’s ever seen, and the offhanded way he watches everything is replaced by the man behind it all. Arthur finds himself wishing he knew what he was supposed to say, but they look at each other for a moment longer and suddenly there's a sense of _seeing_ and being seen, and it seems words aren't needed after all. If Charles was searching for something in Arthur, he doesn't know, but the moment breaks and Charles looks away. 

“Thank you, Arthur,” Charles says, and this time when he speaks he sounds tired. Like he’d burned hot in his rage and it had sapped him of all his energy. His shoulders relax under Arthur’s touch and when he realizes that his hand was still on the man's shoulder, he awkwardly moves it away and scratches at his stubbled jaw.

“Ain’t nothin’ to thank me for,” Arthur replies, looking back at the horses as they approach, having sensed that the fight was done and they’d be needed again. Taima walks right up to Charles, nudges her head against his torso and Charles exhales with a small smile, pressing his face into her neck. Arthur looks away, feeling like the moment was too personal for his presence in it. He fishes out two small wild carrots out of his satchel and gives one to Howard, offering the second to Taima once Charles has collected himself a bit.

“I think- I need to be alone for a bit. You okay riding to camp by yourself?” Charles says as he moves to mount up.

“’course,” Arthur shrugs, but he looks at Charles again. There’s something he wants to say, but he can’t quite put it together. He’s hesitant to leave Charles, a part of him wants to comfort the other man somehow, to soothe the pain he sees violating Charles’ eyes and the lines of his face. He knows the rage- maybe not the same exact kind of pain- but he remembers the feral kind of fury that comes with a wrongful and unjust loss. And he can see that this _is_ a loss, something to grieve. But it goes beyond a few dead bison, it goes to a whole nation of people, wronged by men who are the same color as Arthur- so he can’t understand it completely, but he knows. A distant memory of an empty house with two crosses outside floats to the forefront of his mind. But Charles is already turning away, and the chance to say anything else has passed.

“I’ll see you back at camp, then,” Arthur waves, meekly, as Charles rides away without a second glance, pushing up clouds of dust as he distances himself away from the poacher’s campsite.

Arthur sighs and turns to Howard, glancing at the bison parts stored on his back. He’d made sure he had a clean shot, and Charles had showed Arthur how to break the giant beast down in a respectful, somber way. They’d even had a moment of silence, thanking the animal for its life and the gifts it would bring them. The moment, which Arthur had found so special and almost consecrated, is now tainted with the blood of the innocent spilled by the poachers.

He mindlessly turns Howards towards home, and wonders what else Charles has been hiding behind those eyes of his, and what they look like lit up by a genuine grin Arthur hasn't had the privilege of seeing yet. He thinks of the ugly fury and rage in the man's typically halcyon gaze and what could be done to undo the pain that had been caused.

He thinks he'd be this concerned over any other member of the gang if they'd been under this kind of duress, and he ignores the pang in his chest that might suggest otherwise. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> charles and arthur find an excuse to leave camp for a night under the guise of another hunting trip but really they just want to go on a date (though it's not a date if you ask arthur).  
> they camp, they drink, they gaze at the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sketch of the bison insterted in the fic done by me in a poor imitation of arthur's style (but not really because i can't imitate art styles lmao)  
> also now featuring art from my dear and wonderful friend! check out her tumblr @confusedafbois

Arthur was unsettled, a creeping sort of dread starting to wind its way into his gut. The law seemed to surround them, but never actually seems to catch up to them. It made Arthur feel like a rabbit, running towards his freedom only to find he’d run straight for a cliff. To run back would mean facing his pursuers, to run forwards would be to take a leap of faith and hope he lands somewhere safe, instead of a bunch of jagged rocks that would surely be the end of him. And if it weren’t the law, it was the goddamn O’Driscolls. He’d just arrived back in camp after the robbery with Micah which had, predictably, not gone all according to plan. The pull was decent, but was it worth spending time with Micah? Arthur huffs, _no_ amount of money is worth spending any time with Micah. Shoulda just let him hang back in Strawberry. He would rather deal with Dutch’s wrath at leaving a man behind than speak to that snake of a human. A part of him tries, sometimes, to find some kind of camaraderie with the man, for the sake of the gang and the bond they all share, but damn it if Micah isn’t one of the worst men Arthur’s ever had the displeasure of knowing. He was too cruel, too cunning in a way that made Arthur feel uneasy, like the respect and loyalty that Micah gives to Dutch is more self-serving than not. Arthur’s brows furrow further, and he stalks over to the campfire to pour himself a coffee. No one talks to him as he goes by, though Mary Beth and Tilly spare him a slightly concerned glance from their spot on the dominoes table.

He tries to calm his features as he sips his coffee, knowing that a man of his size and stature stomping around angerly isn’t the kind of energy he wants to bring into camp.

“Hey” a familiar voice speaks from beyond his coffee and Arthur looks up to see Charles, standing over him from where he’s sitting on a log by the fire, “what’s with the face?”

“Nice to see you too Charles, lovely weather we’re having,” Arthur retorts and Charles just gives him a look. He takes a breath and another sip of coffee. No need to be taking it out on Charles, he’s probably becoming the closest thing to a best friend that Arthur’s had in a while. “Went robbin’ with Micah. Had some issues with O’Driscoll’s. And Micah is annoying.”

Charles hums in understanding. Arthur knows he’s not Micah’s biggest fan, either, and if Arthur’s honest he wouldn’t be surprised if Micah finds himself at the business end of Charles’ fist one of these days. He watches Charles pour himself his own cup of coffee and take a seat on the other side of the log.

“Wanna go hunting with me? Might clear your head.” Charles asks, looking sideways towards Arthur.

“Oh, didn’t know Pearson was low on food again,” Arthur says, finishing the last sip of coffee.

“He’s not,” Charles says simply, and sips his own drink. Arthur smiles, possibly for the first time that day. “It’s just an excuse to get out of camp. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to gather more food and materials anyway.”

“Sounds good to me, when do you want to head out?” Arthur stands up, shaking out his tin mug of any leftover droplets. The furrow in his brow, he notices, is gone, and his shoulders are a little more relaxed. Coffee sure does wonders for the soul. Or maybe it’s Charles and his smooth voice and tranquil energy. The prospect of spending some time with him settles Arthur, though he tells himself that it’s because he’ll have an opportunity to breathe some fresh air, not any other reason.

“I’m okay to leave now, if you want,” Charles says as he finishes his own coffee and stands up to join Arthur. Looking around, Arthur sees that everything seems to be in order, and nods to Charles as he makes his way over to the horses.

They decide to go further than they usually would, silently agreeing that a little break from camp is not the worst thing. Ever since Arthur took little Jack fishing and the Pinkertons showed up, the tension in the air has started to rise. They should’ve moved by now, but Dutch being Dutch decided to stand their ground for a bit longer. Arthur doesn’t like it one bit, but what does he know. He shakes the thought out of his head and focuses in on the steady beat of Howard’s meandering lope, easily falling into step with Taima beside him. After they decide where to go, a comfortable silence settles between them, neither really feeling the need to talk much. They make their way northwards, past Emerald Ranch where Charles had said there’s good hunting. Arthur had been in the area a few times before, and each time enjoyed how green and lush with life it was. Compared to the heartlands, it was a kind of oasis, filled with vegetation and birdsong. By the time they approach the ranch, the sun is just starting its final descent into the western horizon.

“Should we think about setting up camp for the night? Might know a spot. We can get an early start tomorrow morning.” Arthur breaks the long silence between them, his voice feeling strange after hearing nothing but the sound of their horses’ hoofs and breaths beneath them. It was companionable, though, comfortable in a way Arthur couldn’t explain. He often found himself more at ease in Charles’ company, happy to enjoy the silence together just as well as having easy conversation with him. After the trip with Micah, Charles’ company is a respite.

“Lead the way,” Charles says, gesturing his arm out for Arthur to take the lead.

He takes them past the ranch and nearly to the base of the mountains of the Eastern Grizzlies, stopping at Moonstone Pond. There’s a crushed cabin next to the pond that Arthur remembers sketching in his journal at some point. A group of ducks takes off when they ride in, quacking away in a flurry of wings and feathers.

“Sure hope no one was inside when the tree came down,” Charles says, regarding the cabin. Arthur had tried to see if there was a way in, last time he was here, to see if anything could be salvaged from the wreckage, but the tree had collapsed the roof and everything was buried by branches and debris. In the end he couldn’t be bothered to dig through the wreckage. “You been here before?”

“Yeah, tried to see if I could get in but it’s a mess,” Arthur shrugs. Beside him, Charles hums in thought before dismounting.

“Let’s see,” Charles mutters and Arthur can’t help but feel a fondness for the man’s curiosity. “I think if one of us just holds up this branch here, the other can slip in. Looks like there might still be stuff inside,” Charles looks back towards Arthur with a slight gleam in his eye, “maybe there’s treasure.”

“Highly unlikely,” Arthur chuckles, but dismounts and walks over to where Charles has climbed onto the massive tree. He asks what branch Charles is referring to and lifts it with all his strength. Surprisingly, the branch moves to his will and creates an opening just big enough for Charles to slip into the cabin bellow. “Need a lamp?” Arthur calls, peeking through the branches and the pine needles to find Charles’ face peeking back.

“Nah,” Charles waves him off an disappears into the darkness. “There’s not much here to see, let me just….” There’s a creaking sound and then a bang and Arthur sees light weakly stream into the dark space. “Found a window,” his companion’s calls through and Arthur can’t help but huff a bit, his wanderlust spirit wishing he could be exploring the unknown contents of the cabin. There’s some shuffling and the sound of things being lifted and put down someplace, and soon enough Charles’ face appears in the gap in the branches again, a rare grin surprising Arthur into staring. “I found some stuff, see if you can lift the branch again.”

Arthur squats down and lifts again, trying to look down to see Charles pushing a bag he must’ve found through the opening, followed by himself. When he’s through safely, Arthur lets go and the branch falls back down with a shudder. He looks at Charles as he stands with his loot.

“Well? What’d you find?”

“Nothing too exiting. Small bag of jewelry, some medicine, a book I think Hosea might like, and…” He reaches into the bag, pulling out a bottle with a worn label that Arthur can barely make out but when he does, he chuckles.

“Aged pirate rum, looks like we’ve hit the jackpot, Mister Smith. I don’t think that stuff is even legal anymore,” Arthur smiles. In front of him, Charles looks far too satisfied for his own good.

“And you said there’d be no treasure in here, Mister Morgan,” Charles smirks back at him and makes his way back towards the horses, slipping the bottle back in the bag. “C’mon, it’s going to be dark soon.”

They set up camp on a small hill near the pond and Arthur admires the view for a second. The sunset paints the sky all sorts of lovely pastel hues of orange and pink, and the pond below reflects it like a mirror. It almost looks like a dream, with the pond drenched in colors while the land around it grows in darkness. The fire is lit and Charles and Arthur sit, cooking a small wild turkey that had crossed their path earlier, nearly getting hit by the horses’ hoofs before Charles- quick as the wind- shot a small arrow into its throat. As the meat cooks, Arthur reaches for the rum that had been placed on the ground near them. He picks it up and waves it with a raised brow aimed at Charles, “Care for a drink, friend?”

“Thought you’d never ask, partner,” Charles laughs and reaches for the bottle, pulling out the cork with his teeth before taking a sip. He recoils almost immediately, pulling a face only the strongest liquor can summon from a man. “Damn. Strong stuff.” He sucks in a breath and takes another swig before handing the bottle to a very amused Arthur.

“Now Charles, don’t go tellin’ me you can’t hold your liquor,” Arthur says as he tips the bottle to his lips. The smell hits him first and almost makes his eyes water, but he powers through and takes a few gulps even though it burns his throat as it travels. He lowers the bottle and inhales through his teeth, grimacing against the alcohol content. Already, he feels it in his fingers. The way they get all tingly and warm.

“Oh please, I’ve seen you at the gang’s parties. You’re a lightweight, Morgan,” Charles jokes as he reaches back for the bottle while Arthur feigns hurt feelings, a hand coming up to press against his chest and his jaw dropping.

“You wound me, Smith,” Arthur sighs, pouting a little as Charles chuckles again.

“Lenny told me about that night in Valentine,” Charles starts and Arthur pales.

“Never again,” he mutters as he shakes his head. It’s a wonder he got away from the law that night, though he just wishes he could remember how he ended up in the woods _past_ the camp. Charles snorts out a laugh and Arthur joins in, accepting another pass of the bottle.

For a while, they take turns sipping the brutally strong rum as they wait for the food to cook. By the time it’s done, neither of them are completely sober and Arthur is giggling to himself under his hat.

“What are you laughing at?” Charles isn’t doing much better, his own voice betraying his usual unperturbed, calm demeanor in favor for a slightly uneven tenor that sits on the verge of laughter. His lips quirk up into a smirk that wrinkles his eyes and Arthur tries not to stare too much, mind juggling too many thoughts at once.

“Was thinkin’… Turkeys make funny sounds,” Arthur rubs his face, trying to keep himself from giggling again like a fool. Charles, from his spot on the ground an arm’s length from Arthur, stares at him. Arthur stares back, a panicking alarm bell prancing its way into his mind. That was probably a stupid thing to say.

Then, Charles bursts into his own fit of giggles as he takes in a shaky breath and exhales it as a surprisingly accurate imitation of a turkey gobble. Arthur bursts into laughter- full, belly laughs and Charles falls on his back, wheezing with his own mirth. It’s a great sound, both of them laughing, and Arthur think that they should do more of this. He could get used to hearing Charles laugh. After a while, they catch their breaths and actually turn to eat the meat that’s been cooking. They pass the bottle a few more times and the space behind Arthur’s ears start to hurt from all the giggling they’ve been doing. The irritation and tense mood Arthur had been in at the start of the day is all but forgotten, replaced with a haziness in his vision that blurs everything to globs of color and lowers the volume of his typically worried mind.

“Say, Charles,” Arthur says, remembering a moment from seemingly ages ago when Arthur was tipsy on navy rum, surrounded by the cold wind and snow of the Grizzlies, and Charles was keeping watch even though no one had asked him. “Can you sing? Seems like you should sing.”

“We’re at that point in the bottle, huh,” Charles smirks, shoulders bouncing with his amusement.

“That ain’t no answer,” Arthur says, squinting at the man. Is he swaying? Or maybe it’s the ground that’s swaying. Maybe they’re actually on a boat? No, Arthur blinks, they’re on solid ground. Arthur is the one swaying, and he moves an arm out to his side to support his weight. He looks over at Charles again, who still hasn’t said anything and is just gazing into the fire with a far-away look. Arthur pokes him with his other hand, “Charlesssssssssssss.”

“I don’t sing,” Charles laughs, waving Arthur’s hand away. “I can play the harmonica, though.”

“Ain’t the same thing,” Arthur pouts. Charles laughs again and lifts the bottle to his lips. Arthur watches as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down, swallowing the fiery liquid. Arthur gulps and takes the bottle when Charles offers it to him. “So, you gunna play me some harmonica then?” Might as well take the next best thing, if Charles won’t sing for him at least he can still play him some music.

“Don’t have one,” this time, Charles pouts. “Lost it somewhere between here and Blackwater.”

“I’ll find you one, then,” Arthur says before he realizes. It’s not the strangest thing for him, to find things for people. Just the other day, Mary-Beth had asked him for a fountain-pen if he found one on his travels and he’d kept it in his mind whenever he was looting somebody or wandering into an abandoned cabin. Wasn’t strange at all, offering to find Charles a harmonica. That’s what Arthur did for his friends.

“Thanks,” Charles breathes, a warm smile curling his lips, and Arthur can’t help but smile back at him. He wondered if there would ever be a time Arthur wouldn’t return one of Charles’ smiles, rare and precious as they were. The sight sparks something in Arthur, who remembers a promise he’d made to himself weeks ago after the bison hunting trip.

“Oh! I have somethin’ for you,” Arthur says- though it’s a bit closer to one long word than a full sentence. He reaches for his satchel and pulls out his journal, gently ripping away a page with a detailed and half-decent depiction of a mighty bison, though Arthur had underestimated how big they were and it turned into mostly a portrait of a bison. He holds it out for Charles, who takes it with gentle hands and eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“For me?” He looks down at the drawing and his jaw slackens a bit. He looks back up at Arthur, eyes full of _something_ that Arthur wants to say is wonder or awe, but that’d be silly. “This is amazing, Arthur. You drew this?”

“Oh… ‘s not that good. Jus’ wanted to…” he shrugs, searching for words, “I dunno, commemorate the event. I haven’t forgotten that trip.” He shrugs again, looking down a bit sheepishly and tugging on a patch of grass with his idle hand. He glances back up and Charles is staring at the drawing, a smile creeps onto his face and Arthur tries to hide his shy grin under the rim of his hat.

“I don’t know what to say... thank you, Arthur,” Charles says, looking back up. Arthur shrugs again and reaches for the bottle again, taking a sip instead of saying anything else. Charles’ turns to the bag he’d looted and slides the drawing into the book for safekeeping.

They sit for a while longer, drinking and chatting and drinking some more. The rum steadily infiltrates Arthur’s bloodstream and it makes him laugh louder, his drunken mind coming up with more dumb questions to ask Charles or dumb answers to Charles’ questions. They talk about trivial little things, and the more they drink the more trivial and lighthearted the topics become. What had started as a conversation about types of game and which one was tastiest (both agree that nothing quite beats well-cooked and seasoned venison) has now strangely led to birds and how colorful they can be and now Arthur is asking Charles what his favorite color is, like they’re boys getting to know each other on the first day of school. Not that Arthur had ever been to school, but the concept remains.

“Blue,” Charles says. He’s laid on his side with a knee bent up and an arm supporting his head. His free hand passes the bottle back to Arthur- close to nearing its end now. Arthur considers his answer with another small sip. “Like the sky on a clear day,” Charles continues as he looks at Arthur. The fire light dances around them, illuminating everything with a comfortable, warm glow. _My eyes are blue,_ Arthur thinks, looking back towards Charles. Their eyes meet and for a second, Arthur wonders if he’d said that out loud. He swallows again and his mind suddenly goes simultaneously blank and into overdrive at the same time. He hastily stands up, bottle in hand, wavering a bit when his legs don’t work quite the way they’re supposed to. Knees are weird.

“WELL!” Arthur burps, his voice louder than he’d intended it to be, and raises the bottle, “Let’s toast! To a successful hunt!”

“We haven’t hunted anything yet. Turkey doesn’t count,” Charles notes, a smile creeping on his lips. Arthur stares for a second. No. He supposes they actually haven’t done much hunting yet. Hm.

“Then, uh, to… treasure in crushed cabins!” Arthur corrects, raising the bottle again and pressing it to his lips. For some reason, the realization that Charles’ lips have been touching the same bottle hits him and he’s surprised at the thought, intruding its way into his muddled mind. He leans down and hands the bottle back to Charles, whose eyes track him as he does so and only look away when he leans his head back to take the last swig with a muffled ‘ _cheers to that.’_

Arthur remains standing, forgetting how to fold his legs beneath him to sit back down because _knees are weird_ , and he finds the weight of his head falling back, eyes gazing up at the sky above them and hat falling off to the side somewhere. Now the sun’s gone down, and darkness has covered the land like a soft blanket. Stars above them twinkle and glow, so clear and bright despite Arthur's drunken haze he almost wants to reach out and grasp them. He brings his head back down and looks around, finding a small grassy rise a few steps from where they’ve camped. He walks- well, stumbles, is it possible to walk when you're tilting at an angle?- over and collapses on the green mound, rolling to his back and gazing upwards.

“You alright, Arthur?” Charles calls, he’s sat back up now, looking at Arthur with a slightly amused expression, though there is a touch of concern in his voice that makes Arthur’s face flush. Or the rum makes his face flush. Arthur doesn’t know.

“Yeah,” he waves his hand limply towards the man at the fire. “Just wanted to look at the stars. C’mere, it’s pretty.” His arm falls down and he pats the patch of ground next to him. He hears the sound of boots scraping the ground and then softly padding over, Charles stands above him for a second with a smirk.

“Never took you to be a star gazer,” Charles says from above him, his voice thick with the honey Arthur has gotten so fond of hearing now.

“‘m a man of many talents,” Arthur replies, bringing the arm that was patting the ground for Charles to his own side. Charles hums and moves to lay down next to him, body angled kind of outward but still close enough that Arthur’s chest feels much warmer all of a sudden. Probably another reaction to the rum. 

Arthur pretends not to think about how close Charles is to him. How given all this space, he still chose to lay down right beside Arthur, shoulders almost touching, pinkies grazing against each other as Arthur awkwardly lifts his hand to rest on his stomach. Above them, the sky goes on, and on. Charles lays there with one arm supporting the back of his head and the other resting at his side. The same side Arthur is on. If he moved his hand back down, they’d almost be touching. Briefly, Arthur wonders what Charles' hands are like, if they're covered in similar callouses and scars as his own. The thought is waved away the next instant, foolish as it was. 

“Do you know anything about stars?” Arthur asks, his voice softer and quieter than before.

“Not much,” he lifts his hand up, palm flat up against the expanse above, “my mother taught me where the North Star was and a few constellations that I don’t remember. But I always wanted to learn how to navigate by stars, like in those pirate stories.”

“You like pirate stories?” Arthur turns his head over to look at Charles, who’s raised his eyebrows as if he didn’t mean to share that last bit of information. A smile tugs at Arthur’s lips. He couldn’t picture Charles on a boat, honestly, it was kind of funny… and kind of cute, in an unexpected sort of way.

“My dad read them to me as a kid,” Charles sighs, accepting the slight slip-up and lowering his hand back down. “Some of my best memories of him before… before my mom… he read me pirate stories. Said he’d take us to the ocean one day, back to his ancestor’s homeland.” The air suddenly grows a bit heavier around them, a sadness seeping into the light mood from before. Arthur looks up again, suddenly guilty. He thinks about lowering his hand to his side again, brush his pinkie against Charles’ to, oh he doesn’t know, to comfort him. Or something.

“I read a book on astronomy once, said something about ancient people in Greece naming all them constellations,” he says instead, choosing to veer away from the subject of childhood memories. He lifts his hand up, pointing to a constellation above them, “That there is Ursa Major. It’s easy to find because the Big Dipper is a part of it.” His fingers trace the cluster of stars. “And if you follow it up… there’s the North Star.”

Charles hums as he follows Arthur’s hand to the bright star, and they sit together in silence for a while. Crickets chirp and distantly, an owl hoots, the sound being carried over by a gentle breeze that tickles Arthur’s hair. There’s a dim, barely-there sliver of new moon, casting a pale glow on the land. Arthur find his head turning back towards Charles and he traces the profile of his face, pale moonlight caught in his hair, on his skin. The stars themselves seem to twinkle and glow in the reflection of Charles’ eyes, as if he has his own universe in his head. Arthur wonders if he could draw it, though he doubts a pencil could ever do this sight justice.

Arthur blinks, wary of the rum still warming his face. Or at least, he hopes its rum. Otherwise it’d be awful strange to feel so flushed. Charles turns his head to suddenly meet Arthur’s eyes and his heart skips a beat, suddenly feeling a sort of intimacy he didn’t expect. They’re a lot closer than he’d thought, and from this distance he can see every detail on Charles’ face except for his unreadable expression. He looks younger, like this, somehow. The nearby fire casts highlights across his face and Arthur can see the dark mole on his right cheek, the pale scars that mark his face along his jaw and eyebrow, the stubble that always seems to stay the same length. The stars are still twinkling in Charles’ eyes, impossibly bright and infinite in the depths of his pupils.

 _Definitely the rum. Yep. Drank too much._ Arthur feels his face flush again and he forces himself to look back up at the sky.

“Sure is beautiful, the night sky.” Arthur says, hoping he doesn’t sound as flushed and awkward as he feels.

“Sure is,” Charles says, and then from the corner of his eye Arthur sees him turn his eyes back towards the sky.

_Sure is._

The next morning, they do not get an early start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one might be one of my favorites :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur gets a new horse

He doesn’t need a new horse, really. Howard is a perfectly fine mount and Arthur didn’t even have to train him much for it. They’d ridden enough miles together to form a bond and Arthur, horseman as he is living the dangerous life he does, tries not to over-think the danger his horse is in every time they ride out. Howard’s a good horse, that’s why he’d gone up to the stable north of Rhodes- to pick up move provisions and maybe a new saddle blanket because he deserved something new and nice. He’s purchased some apples and is in the process of putting them in his satchel when the stable owner mentions the horses he’s got on sale, and curiosity and love for horses lures Arthur over to see what there is, not that he’s there to buy a new horse because why would he? There’s a big, strong-looking bay roan draft and a pretty sooty buckskin warmblood, but his eyes land on the horse closest to him- a golden stallion with a dark mane that’s sticking his head out of the stall, sniffing towards Arthur with his charming pink nose. Or sniffing the apples that Arthur just bought, more likely. The stable hand notices Arthur’s gaze and walks over to the stall.

“I see you got a good eye, this one here is my pride and joy. Top of the line Missouri Fox Trotter, just broken in. He’s fast, and strong, and got a personality brave as a wolf.” The sales pitch is thrown his way and Arthur is tempted. But no, he doesn’t need a new horse. Nope.

“How much?” Arthur asks anyway, thinking if he’s not too expensive maybe he could consider it. Might be nice to have another horse- two doesn’t hurt. Could always use the second as a pack horse when he goes hunting or something. Though thinking about it, the horse in front of him looks far too fancy for a pack horse.

“Nine-hundred and fifty,” The owner replies, "you won’t find a finer steed this side of Flat Iron Lake.”

“You must be joking,” Arthur scoffs, nearly a thousand for a horse? Please. He wants to turn away, but the young stallion is still looking at him, ears perked, forelock cascading over his head. The horse nickers softly and Arthur narrows his eyes and, _goddamnit,_ he looks back at the stable owner turned salesman. “I’ll give you five hundred.”

“Eight, I raised this boy myself, he’s worth every penny,” the man crosses his arms and raises his brow, the negotiation on.

“Okay, okay. Six-fifty.” Arthur gives a little, though a voice in his head is still telling him that he definitely _doesn’t need a new horse._

**_But I want it_** , says another- much louder- voice in his head.

The man in front of him regards Arthur, looking at him and then the horse, and back at him. “Seven-fifty, I won’t go lower.”

A beat, the two stare at each other. The horse stares at Arthur.

“Fine,” Arthur reaches in, pulling out the cash while the reasonable voice that reminds him of his perfectly good Howard screams and the other voice laughs in triumph. It’s a damn good thing Arthur’s been getting some good jobs, and that gold bar the German gave him just before they’d arrived at Clemens Point certainly didn’t hurt. The cash is handed over and the papers are signed. He pauses on the space for the horse’s name, thinking about it. “Has he got a name?”

“I just been callin’ him golden boy on account of his coat, but my daughter calls him Hercules, from a book her momma read her,” the owner says as he leads the horse out of his stall.

 _Hercules._ That’s a fine name. Powerful and full of grace, fitting for the stallion as he walks out of the box and gives his body a shake. Arthur smiles as he fills in the rest of the sale sheet. He turns back towards Howard, who looks bored with the whole ordeal, and pats the bay on his neck and feeds him an apple, whispering a slight apology to his previous mount. He’ll take him back to camp, maybe one of the girls could take him.

He takes Hercules from the owner and leads him out, finally feeding him one of the apples he’d been eyeing. Arthur decides he’ll pony him back to camp on Howard and change the saddle over later. He’ll have to take the new stallion out on a test ride, and probably should’ve done so before he signed the papers. _Oh well._ As he swings his leg into Howard’s saddle, a girl comes running from the house near the barn. She looks to be around Jack’s age, maybe a bit older, strawberry blonde hair bouncing around her head as she spots Arthur.

“Hercules!” she squeals, and Arthur has a moment of panic when he thinks the fresh horse will spook at the loud noise, but then he doesn’t, and just looks towards the sound with a twitch of his ears. The owner had followed Arthur out of the barn and now moves to intercept his daughter, picking her up before she crashes into any horse legs. “Did you buy him, mister?” she asks, pointing at Arthur.

“Sure did, miss,” Arthur says, cautiously. He hopes the girl isn’t too attached, that would make for an awkward exit. “I guess I have you to thank for such a great name.”

She beams at him, eagerly nodding her head. “You gonna take care of him?” She pouts, accusatory tone slipping into her voice. Her father chides her and Arthur smiles, thinking it must be nice to have a close bond with your daughter. He wonders what it’d be like.

“I’m certainly going to try,” Arthur smiles, tipping his hat. The girl smiles once more, turning her pointed hand into a thumbs up. They exchange their farewells and Arthur clicks his tongue, making sure he’s got a tight hold onto Hercules’ lead. The stallion tosses his head but follows along easily enough. The owner had given him a brief history of the horse, how he’d been raised, first trained in hand and then backed at the age of 3, which Arthur finds comforting since so many men back their horses before they’re ready. He knew a little about training horses, having broken in more than one wild mustang here and there, and he’d had Boadicea since she was a young filly. He was confident in his horsemanship abilities, but he was glad that Hercules had already had a solid start in his training. He smiles at his new horse as they ride back towards Clemens Point, itching to get on his back and see how fast and strong he really is.

He greets Javier, who’s keeping guard, as he returns to their camp.

“Hey! New horse?” Javier asks, walking up to where Arthur has paused.

“Yup,” Arthur nods, looking over as Hercules reaches out to sniff Javier’s extended hand. It wasn’t a long ride from the stable, but it’s been long enough that Arthur can already tell Hercules is braver than he looks and is almost too curious for his own good, though Arthur suspects he’s mostly just looking for treats. The little girl at the stable probably spoiled him, but Arthur has no trouble with that. He spoils his horses too. “Paid too much for him, but there’s somethin’ special about this one.”

“Well he’s definitely got a good look about him, _muy guapo,”_ Javier smiles and takes a step back, returning to his post as Arthur continues on towards camp. He wonders if Charles is around, maybe could even ride out with him. Taima is calm and steady, would probably be a good influence on the young and fresh Hercules. As he enters the clearing, Howard calls out to his friends in the herd and Hercules’ ears prick up, nostrils flaring as he whinnies towards the new horses. He hitches them both to a post and watches as some of the camp’s herd looks over to the new addition. Sadie’s golden dappled Bob, who’s closest, takes a step towards Hercules from the other side of the hitching post and they greet each other, blowing air out of their noses and arching their necks. It’s a cool thing to watch- horses greeting each other- and Arthur releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding as Bob seemingly accepts the new presence.

With Hercules safely hitched up at the post, he takes a step back to admire the animal. He’s got long, sturdy legs that darken past the knee. His amber champagne coat is smattered with healthy dapples and a gleaming sheen. As Hercules shakes his head, his thick mane reflects an auburn hue in the sunlight. He looks at Arthur, forelock thrown aside from his shake and Arthur sees an endearing teardrop shaped white marking between his eyes. Hercules exhales a puff of air, rosy nostrils flaring, sniffing the air for food.

“Nice horse,” a deep voice reaches Arthur and he looks to see Charles walking up to him from the direction of the lake. His hair is wet and dripping on the cloth of his dotted blue shirt, looking cleaner than the last time Arthur had seen him. Must’ve just bathed in the lake, Arthur thinks, and then backtracks his mind. No need to be thinking about his friend bathing in the waters. He turns his head back to Hercules, who’s attention is now turned on Charles.

“This is Hercules,” Arthur presents, stretching an arm in a mock grandiose matter. Charles chuckles lightly and moves to let the new stallion sniff his outstretched hand.

“He’s very handsome,” Charles says, rubbing Hercules’ upper lip in an affectionate manner. The horse snorts and lifts his lip up, grinning in the way only horses can. Arthur’s lips twitch up into his own grin, enjoying the sight. Looks like this horse has got some tricks up his sleeve. Arthur’s in the middle of wondering if he could capture that expression in his journal when another voice cuts into their space.

“Fancy horse you got there, cowpoke,” Micah drawls, walking up behind Arthur, “looks mighty expensive.”

“What business is it of yours, Micah?” Arthur’s voice drops, his mood soured immediately at Micah’s arrival.

“Jus’ wondering,” Micah continues, walking past and approaching Hercules. Arthur grits his teeth. Charles glares, continuing to pat Hercules’ head in soothing strokes as his ears point backwards towards the man approaching his space. “Funny how the camp always seems to be strugglin’, and here you are with a fancy new pony.” 

Arthur is about to retort, to tell Micah to lay off and not put a greasy, dirty hand on Hercules’ fresh coat when Micah does just that, hand falling onto his hip and Hercules’ ears pin back as he throws his head upwards and his back leg lashes out, directly into Micah’s knee.

The man falls and Charles and Arthur gape before barking out a laugh as Micah groans and crawls away, clutching his surely bruised knee.

“You better train that horse, Morgan!” He spits as he struggles to stand, glaring at Arthur.

“Seems to me he’s trained better than I could’ve hoped,” Arthur bites back, a wicked grin splitting his face. Micah grunts again as he limps away, and Arthur looks back. Hercules is relaxed again, nudging Charles in hopes for more pats. Arthur smiles again. His horse has good taste, it seems, and is a fine judge of character. Worth ever penny indeed. He looks over at Charles, who’s smirking to himself as he scratches Hercules’ cheek. “Wanna go for a ride?”

“You already know I do,” Charles grins, and turns to head towards his horse. Arthur untacks Howard and heaves the saddle onto the taller horse, feeling the fit and hoping he won’t have to go and adjust the tree of the saddle or anything. Luckily, it fits and Arthur can’t feel any places where it might pinch the young Hercules. He finishes tacking up the new ride, pleased that any bad habits horses tend to have seem to elude this one. He stomps a bit as Arthur tightens the cinch, but at least he doesn’t turn his head to bite or lift his leg to kick. Vaguely, he understands why his owner wanted so much for him- well trained and good-natured as this horse is. There isn’t an ounce of regret in his purchase.

Charles is already on Taima and waiting off to the side as Arthur puts a foot in a stirrup and mounts up, pleased when Hercules’ doesn’t react besides twitching his ear back at the new weight. He shifts his seat a bit, finding a good position, and gently squeezes the reins, turning away from the post. They ride away without an issue, and Hercules’ gait is astonishingly smooth. As the gears up into a trot out of the trees that surround the camp, Arthur smiles. The trot for which his breed is named for is exactly as gaited and comfortable as Arthur suspected. Feels more like sitting in a kayak on the lake on a windless day, calm waters beneath.

“Y’know, Charles, this may be the most comfortable horse I’ve ever sat on,” Arthur says, looking over at his companion.

“Hmm, you’ve been on Taima. She’s got smoother gates than anyone.” Charles doubts, smirking over towards Arthur, “faster than anyone too.”

“Oh, I see where this is goin’,” Arthur laughs and shift his weight in his seat. Hercules’ head shoots up, sensing the change but not quite yet knowing what it means. Arthur can’t help but feel exited, eager to get some miles in together to get to a point where Arthur merely has to think of something and subtly shift his weight and his steed will know exactly what to do. Boadicea, in his life, is yet unmatched in her sensitivity to Arthur’s weight. Howard, good a horse as he was, usually just needed an extra aid- a slight tug on the reins or a quick tap to his barrel- to get him to do what Arthur asked. Hercules seems to notice, at least, which is a promising sign.

“Think he’s ready for it? Don’t want to push too hard if you just got him,” Charles asks, and Arthur hums, the sentiment Charles conveys comforting. True, this is his first ride on Hercules, maybe a race wouldn’t be too wise. But, then again, how else will he know where Hercules’ limits are? How hard he can push? They haven’t had any trouble so far. Arthur wonders where the catch is, thinking that this horse is almost _too_ perfect and there must be something he just hasn't discovered yet. Only way to find out was to ride, really, and see how things went. 

“I think he can handle it, maybe just not too far away,” He looks back at Charles, a gleam in his eye. Charles’ hands tighten subtly on the reins and Taima huffs hot air, knowing what comes next.

“Dewberry Creek?”

“See you there!” Arthur nudges Hercules onwards with a twitch of his spurs and the horse beneath him bursts forward, head held high and legs stretching to their full length.

“Hey!” Charles yells from behind and Taima is shooting forwards, easily covering the small head start that Arthur had gained. The pounding of hooves on solid earth and the snorting of horses is all Arthur can hear above the wind blowing in his ears. _Boy_ , Hercules can _move._ The man at the stable had mentioned how fast he was, but Arthur can really feel it, see it in the way the landscape blurs. They were made for this, running free over the roads and through the fields with the wind in their hair, in their lungs, blowing past blurred trees and hills. He briefly looks back and Charles is close, Taima’s ears pinned back as her secretly competitive spirit pushes her on. Charles’ eyes meet Arthur and he grins, hair whipping wildly about his face- nearly dry now with the help of the fresh air and wind breezing past them. Arthur’s heart thumps loudly in his chest with adrenaline of the race, and maybe something else. The excitement of having his first gallop on a new horse, probably.

They skid around a bend and then they’re off at full speed again, breaking off the trail and flying over a grassy hill and Arthur recognizes the terrain. He glances back, Charles right on his tail, and looks forward again as he flies through the air and Hercules takes a leap off a small ledge onto the creek bed and then-

The landing doesn’t stick that well.

Hercules trips as he lands and the motion sends him stumbling forward, back end shooting up in a wild buck and this time-

Arthur is actually flying through the air, approaching the solid ground underneath at an alarmingly rapid rate and Hercules is not underneath to catch him.

He lands with a _thunk_ that pushes the air out of his lungs and momentum keeps him tumbling over his right shoulder until he’s on his back, limbs spread out around him. For some reason, he starts to giggle at the absurd fall he just had. There's the catch then, as graceful and powerful as this horse is, he's _clumsy_ of all things. 

“Arthur!” Taima comes into his view as Charles spins her around Arthur, hopping off before she’s even finished slowing down. He’s at Arthur’s side in the next second, kneeling down and gazing him in a concerned gaze that still holds an undertone that’s too amused for his own good. “That was quite a tumble, cowboy.” Arthur laughs and takes Charles’ arm up as it’s offered to him, clasping their wrists together as Charles lifts Arthur with relative ease. He’s surprised for a second, though he shouldn’t be- at the nonchalance of Charles’ strength as if he’s not lifting a brute muscled outlaw as easily as he would a small child.

“Still won, though,” Arthur breathes, caught between a groan and a chuckle, standing up as his other hand reaches to the throbbing pain at the back of his neck and shoulder. In the next second he’s hissing at the sharp sting on his skin as it stretches in the motion. Arthur looks down where he landed- well, crashed- to see a lovely patch of gravel with a distinctly Arthur-shaped crater disturbing the ground. 

“You okay? Looks like you might’ve scraped yourself up pretty bad,” Charles noted, stepping to Arthur’s side to inspect the pebbles that have been caught by Arthur’s shirt and skin, probably.

Arthur moves his head around to inspect the damage as Charles gently brushes the clingy pebbles away. There is a brief moment of contact that sends a wave of goosebumps through Arthur’s neck. Arthur guesses he must be scraped up pretty bad indeed if his skin is that sensitive to touch. He turns his head back as a soft huff of air brushes against his side and Hercules is there, fortunately seemingly unhurt, and sniffing at Arthur like a sad puppy. An amused fondness blooms in Arthur’s chest and he lifts his better hand to brush Hercules’s thick forelock off to the side to scratch at the hidden dewdrop on his forehead. Hercules twitches his ears in response, lowering his head as he relaxes into Arthur’s touch.

“We should see about cleaning you up a bit, make sure the skin didn’t break,” Charles offers, and Arthur turns to find him staring, warmth in his eyes as he observed moment. He inhales a breath and nods with a slight grunt, moving towards one of the saddlebags on Hercules’ side. He removes a canteen of water and holds it in one hand as the other begins to unbutton his shirt and union suit a bit to reveal the skin of his shoulder. He doesn’t think about what he’s actually doing until Charles comes back into view with some bandages and a clean-looking piece of cloth.

“Here, let me help,” the deep tenor of Charles’ voice so close to him sends another wave of goosebumps up Arthur’s neck and he doesn’t say anything as he hands the canteen over and pushes his shirt over his shoulder. He inspects the damage and isn’t too surprised to see his skin turned an angry, raw pink with crimson streaks mapping the lines that the gravel had carved in. Luckily, he’s barely bleeding, just a few spots of blood seeping out some of the deeper scrapes.

“Could be worse,” Charles hums as he inspects the wide abrasion that now spreads across the back of Arthur’s neck and right shoulder. Some of the skin has also started to turn all shades of purple in a telling bruise.

Arthur turns and looks back at Hercules, pointing a scolding finger at the stallion. “It’s a good thing you’re cute, horse,” and beside him on the other side, he hears Charles exhale a slight chuckle.

There’s a boulder nearby that Charles gestures towards and Arthur moves to lean on it, awkwardly placed so his shoulder is easily reachable as Charles pours some water onto the cloth and gently presses it against the bleeding scrapes. The water is cold and it’s a stark contrast against the angry raw skin. Arthur bites back a hiss as Charles continues his work with surprisingly gentle and deft hands. His mind wanders and he tries to think of something else.

He remembers the last time the pair of them were at this same creek bed, maybe a week or so ago, when they’d been sent out to scout for a new campsite after the mess stirred up in Valentine. He frowns, recalling the day.

It was supposed to be a simple, easy sheep hustlin’ job with John but of course it ended with them all fleeing for their lives. Arthur recalls approaching Dutch’s tent as he and Hosea were already inside, arguing about the next step.

“We ain’t even got the delusion of being anything _but_ a bunch of killers,” Hosea had stated, and he wasn’t wrong.

“We are just trying to _survive_ , Hosea,” Dutch had spat back, and he wasn’t wrong neither. The frustration of the two men had settled into Arthur, feeling the same. Wasn’t like he’d wanted to shoot all those people in Valentine and a familiar clutch of unease had settled into his gut. First the Pinkertons, and the O’Driscolls, and now goddamn Leviticus Cornwall and his hired guns. The world was turning on Arthur, on his family, on men like him who’d been living outside of society and the law. Dutch had sent him out with Charles to scout Dewberry Creek at Micah’s suggestion and it had taken a lot of self-control to not scoff in Dutch’s face at the mention of _Micah_. A scowl, as worn and familiar as his boots, had settled on Arthur as he rode out.

Dutch’s words had echoed in his head, his mean and sarcastic tone as he mocked Arthur- “ _I don’t know,_ _start dancing?”_ \- and the frustration only grew within Arthur as he’d talked about the whole situation with Charles on the way to the possible new campsite. 

Then they’d found the corpse, and the abandoned camp, and finally the German mother with her two children, trembling under a wagon with an unsteady shotgun pointed straight at them. Arthur had had enough goddamn guns pointed at his face and he felt himself tensing up, the irritation he’d been feeling was reaching a tipping point. In contrast next to him, Charles softened.

“It’s okay,” he lifted his hands with fingers spread wide and a gentle look on his face. “We don’t mean you no harm.”

Arthur had tried to shoo them away, tell them to get, but then they were asking for help- something about their father being taken away and before Arthur could express how much he didn’t rightly care, Charles was asking _who_ and _where_ with that gentle, soothing tone of his.

 _“_ It ain’t no business of ours, I don’t even speak their language” Arthur had said, exasperated, and in no mood to help people even though a quiet voice inside him told him he _should_.

Turns out that quiet voice was Charles, who glared at him with a look far away from the soft expression that had been turned towards the fractured family in front of them.

“You ain’t as tough and dense as all that. Come on, Arthur,” Charles pointed a harsh finger at him as he turned and headed towards the horses. Arthur deflated, huffing out a breath of annoyance even though he knew that Charles was right, loathe as he was to admit it.

“What’s going on with you?” Charles had asked once they’d picked up a trail and were headed on their way.

“What do you mean?” Arthur grunted, stubborn as ever with tension still squeezing him and frustration trickling in his veins.

“You were just going to send that woman and her children on their way?” Charles accused, sparing him a glance with furrowed brows.

“We’re wanted men,” Arthur reminded him, defensive tone biting his voice, “We got Pinkertons breathing down our necks. We should be moving camp, not running off on some wild goose chase.”

“Come on, Arthur. That’s not how you are,” Charles had said with the conviction of someone that knew something about Arthur that he didn’t even know about himself. Arthur bristled, uncalled for. Maybe that _is_ how he was, he could’ve ignored the little honorable voice that told him to help when and where help is needed, and he would’ve been fine. He sleeps at night no matter who he did or didn’t help. Arthur knew he wasn’t the best of men- maybe just the best at being a simple-minded brute that intimidates and shoots and kills. Charles had only been riding with him for a few months, how would he know?

“Well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do,” he’d grumbled back, scowling to himself.

Charles didn’t respond, only shooting him a look that Arthur couldn’t decipher. He was scowling, brows set in a deep furrow, but his eyes were too soft to be full of anger. He looked away in the next instant. They rode in silence for a few minutes as Charles continued tracking until they changed the subject back to the matters at hand- the gang, the Pinkertons, such and such.

They’d found Clemens Point, then, and Charles had declared that it’d be a better spot than Dewberry Creek and of course he was right. Any idea of Micah's was rat shit compared to this place. After taking care of the men who’d kidnapped the German father and reuniting the family, Arthur had taken a few hours to himself and by the time he returned, camp was nearly set up and Arthur was too tired to do anything but go to bed.

Now, as he was caught in the memories of that day, under the heat of the Lemoyne sun and with Charles wiping away the blood and the dirt from Arthur’s shoulder, he realized how sour he’d been and Charles had been in the brunt of some of his frustration.

“Remember when we was last here, Charles?” he asks, looking out over the creek. He sees the patch of trees that the Germans had been calling their camp off in the distance.

“Of course,” Charles says, “you were being an ass.” Arthur snorts out a laugh, nodding in agreement.

“Yeah… yeah, I was. Guess I never really apologized to you for that,” he looks back at Charles, who’s concentrating on his shoulder, “sorry for bein’ an ass. You were right to help that family.”

“We all have bad days, Arthur,” Charles responds, and then looks at Arthur, “what matters is you _did_ help. And that’s the difference… the world would be a better place if more people did the honorable thing, even if they are asses while doing it.”

They look at each other for a beat and Arthur has to look down, hide his face behind his hat, afraid he’d do something foolish like _blush_ if he kept looking into Charles’s eyes.

“Your shoulder should be fine; I don’t think it even needs bandaging. Probably best let it heal normally, so long as you keep it clean,” Charles says as he steps back to inspect Arthur’s shoulder. He looks and sees that once the blood has been wiped away, the scrape is really not that bad and it’s looking more like just bruising.

“Thanks,” Arthur mutters as he carefully re-buttons his top and stands up off the boulder, moving back towards Hercules and checking him over a bit more thoroughly to be sure he wasn’t injured in the stumble from before.

“And hey, that was a good race,” Arthur looks up to see Charles nodding towards Hercules with a slight smirk on his lips, “he’s definitely a keeper.”

“Yeah,” he says, patting Hercules’ neck, “I think he is.” 

They mount up and ride back to camp at a much more leisurely pace, enjoying the view of the lake and the sun on their backs as it starts to set. The adrenaline is gone from his system and he’s adjusted to Hercules’ new pace, but his heart still thumps loudly in his chest and Arthur tries to ignore the reason why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok ok listen, i know that basically every fic puts Arthur on a mare because writing a male character on a male horse with a male love interest puts a lot of "he's" and "his" and "hims" in one sentence and it might get a little lost- but Hercules the amber champagne fox trotter was my favorite horse in my first play-through (and also my final horse in my first play-through) and i love him a lot so. i'm gonna try and keep it as clear as possible in terms of which "he" im referring to in any given sentence but there might be some spots in the future where it gets a bit trickier so we're all just gonna have to deal with it together and hope for the best.
> 
> thank you for reading this so far! I've got some more rough scenes i have to flesh out but hopefully i will be posting a minimum of once a week (though like, no promises). I think from here on out we're gonna have quite a bit more angst, so be prepared. I will update tags as they come up because im not sure yet which tags i'm going to need- though if there's anything very major i'll definitely make a note of it at the start of the chapter. 
> 
> also yes, i know that the missouri fox trotter only becomes available in chapter 4 and this technically takes place right at the start of chapter 3 but like, who cares? its fanfic, babey.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> takes place during and after the "magicians for sport" mission in chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i should add a small warning- there's mild descriptions of asphyxiation and also just like.. canon-typical violence. not too much detail or anything but enough i feel like deserves a heads up.

“Oh, the sight of the pair of you would make a statue sing out its secrets,” Dutch had said in a grandiose manner and Arthur sighed, turning and finding Charles, telling him he’s needed for some business in town. Something about Trelawney and knowing something about some bounty hunters after them all.

And perhaps a statue would sing its secrets, but when Charles and Arthur arrive at the man’s ramshackle home in Rhodes, they find that the statue has been stolen. The shack that Trelawney had inhabited had been ransacked, and as the pair looked around, they soon figured out there had been a fight. He follows the trail of bloody splatters outside and soon enough, they’re back on their horses and Arthur is following the trail back onto the roads back outside of Rhodes and beyond. It leads them to a small camp with two men who look far too smug and mean and Arthur itches to punch them even before Charles picks up Trelawney’s cane from where it lay on the ground.

Predictably, a fight breaks out, but Arthur is prepared. His muscles were braced the second he dismounted and walked towards the strangers, and he’d seen the shift in Charles’ stance that foretold a brawl. This wouldn’t last long. The man that had lunged at Arthur misses his hit as he deftly twists his torso away, before twisting back with a one-two punch that hits just right on the man’s temple and he’s down. He turns and looks to see Charles throw the second man down and move a boot to his throat. For a second, Arthur looks at the sight of Charles as he stands over his defeated foe, barely breaking a sweat. He knows that Charles is competent, a good fighter, as strong as 10 men. Arthur isn’t even sure if he could take Charles in a fight if they were on the wrong side of each other and he’s just glad that it hopefully won’t ever come to that, he’s glad that they’re friends.

He stalks over to the man on the ground, silently communicating with Charles as he quickly steps in behind him and reaches down to grab the man’s throat when Charles moves away.

“ _Where_ is Trelawney?” Arthur says, backhanding the man with some restrained strength- don’t wanna bash him up too much before he gets his information.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” the man tries, and Arthur narrows his eyes and furrows his brow- easily slipping into his role as the brute outlaw that suits him so well. His fist collides with the man’s cheek and the skin splits, blood staining Arthur’s freshly bruised knuckles.

“Tell me where he is _”_ Arthur growls between his teeth, voice sitting lower in his throat.

“You can go to hell!” The stranger beneath him hisses, but Arthur recognizes the look in his eyes. Knows that his will to live is stronger than his will to keep the information hidden. Arthur brings his fist down once more.

“You better tell me _now_ you son of a bitch.” Arthur’s grip tightens on the man’s throat as he gives the man a rough shake. When no answer comes, he starts to lift his fist once more.

“Okay! Okay… for Christ’s sake,” the man finally relents, his gaze going down, submissive, “They took him to a cabin, over by the cornfields.”

“ _Which_ cornfields?”

“Left! Dow the path there, by Braithwaite Manor,” he squeaks out, flinching at Arthur’s slightest movements.

Arthur glances over at Charles as he lifts his fist once more and his heart seems to skip a beat as he sees the man, leant against a nearby tree and smoking a cigarette, as casual as can be. No time to be staring, it’s only a second’s glance and he drags his eyes back to the man in his grasp. His raised fist comes down on the man, hard enough to knock him out and he steps back as his victim fall to the ground. He glances over again at Charles and his heart definitely skips a beat this time, vision sticking in his mind. Charles exhales a final puff of smoke as he steps away from the tree, while a ray of sunlight catches him from behind and makes the edges of his hair glow brightly. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved shirt with an unbuttoned vest hanging on his broad shoulders. The pants he’s wearing sit low on his hips and the holster he keeps his sawed-off shotgun in straps around his well-muscled thigh. For a brief moment Arthur wonders where he got that holster. Mighty fine, it is. Very practical.

“Alright then,” Charles says as he flicks the butt of the cigarette to the ground and strides towards Taima. Arthur inhales sharply and jogs back to Hercules, ignoring the strange thump in his chest, chalking it up to post-fight adrenaline. They wind their way towards the cornfield, Charles leading them a slightly roundabout path to avoid the Braithwaite mansion, which Arthur would be happy to never see again though he has a feeling he will, eventually. Wasn’t too long ago he was sitting in the parlor of that house with Hosea and Mrs. Braithwaite, the scowling mother that oozed with an energy Arthur didn’t like one bit. She was a mother to an age that never should’ve existed, no matter how she wished it to be and no matter how she tried her damned hardest to keep her grasp of power over everything. He couldn’t have gotten out of there soon enough. It was even less time ago he was there stealing horses with John and Javier. Definitely best to be avoiding the place.

They find the cabin soon enough, as well as the bounty hunters that had taken their strange fellow. They dismount and square their shoulders as they stalked over to where the hunters were dragging a beaten, bloodied, and almost unrecognizable Mr. Josiah Trelawney. The second Charles and Arthur draw their weapons, the bounty hunters share a look and sprint away, into the cornfields. Just as quickly, Charles is moving, kneeling down for a half second to cut Trelawney loose and then he’s off- all muscle and speed chasing after the bounty hunters who are now the ones being hunted. Arthur kneels down, checking on Trelawney, before he joins the chase down the hill from the cabin. He sees the cowards as they run into the fields and he groans inwardly. He hates runnin’.

“Don’t let ‘em get away! He coulda told them anythin’,” she shouts to Charles as he peels off, chasing one of the men into the nearest cornfield. He takes the pump-action shotgun from his shoulder and aims, looking for just the slightest movement in the cornstalks as he fires off a round of shots. As soon as he hears the shriek and thud of a body, he turns and sprints in the direction of the next victim. Distantly, there’s a shout and the unmistakable sound of Charles’ sawed-off shotgun. That’s two down, then.

He turns and runs back to Charles, who’s now jogging lightly along the fields with his weapon drawn and ready, pointing down every gap between the stalks of corn. “Hey, I think I found something,” Arthur follows him into the field and sees what Charles had noticed, “he’s dumped his gear. Look around, he can’t have gone far.”

Slower this time, he slings the shotgun over his shoulder and unholsters his pistol, moving through the corn alleys on high alert, eyes darting around. Where is the bastard? When he gets his hand on him-

Something is thrown over his head and instinct is the only thing that makes Arthur bring a hand up to his neck as a rope tightens and he’s pulled to the ground. The tips of his fingers ache as they’re burned by the rope and he gasps, pulling in air that he can’t breathe, and panic takes a sharp clutch in his chest. He kicks out at the ground and rakes his other hand against the rope in his throat, desperately trying to get a hold of it to relieve the pressure on his throat- he just needs to breathe but-

“He’s mine!” the voice above him screams but Arthur doesn’t really hear it, he can’t, air won’t enter his lungs and he feels his chest squeezing and struggling as the body behind him tenses and squeezes even harder. “Let me take him… you get outta here.”

“You… have my friend,” a voice says, and it sounds familiar but Arthur doesn’t even care who it is- he’s trying to find some relief from the rope but his nails are just digging into his own skin. This is how he dies, then, in some random cornfield tryin’ to save a smooth-talking cockroach because Dutch asked him to. His eyes well up and he’s still trying to _breathe_ as his vision blurs and the edges start to go dark and his lungs are painful in his chest, his heart thumping irrationally as it hammers against his ribs in a feral panic and he’s thinking _this is it_ when he finally sees Charles. At least he’s imagining the face of his closest friend in his final moments and he just wishes they’d talked more before he goes.

“He’s not your _friend,_ ” the first voice says, drunk on the power of having a human life in his hands. “I’ll give you money…”

He shuts his eyes as darkness swaddles him and he’s still wishing he could just have one more breath of fresh air before he di-

The pressure at his throat disappears and air floods back into his lungs as he shoots his eyes open and gasps. He throws himself forward, ripping the rope back over his head as he lands on his knees, away from his attacker. His hands wrap themselves around his neck as if the rope was still there but it’s not- he’s _alive_ and he can _breathe_ again.

There’s a sudden, but gentle and warm, weight at his shoulder and Arthur flinches, only to see Charles above him with a harried look and Arthur tries to smile- but he’s not sure it comes out.

“Shoulda taken the money,” Arthur wheezes and he tilts his head down again, breathing heavily. He promises himself never to take breathing for granted again. He squeezes his eyes again and finds that tears are spilling out of them. _Jesus,_ he thinks, _I almost died._

“I know, I’m a fool,” Charles cautiously smiles and the hand on Arthur’s shoulder squeezes.

Arthur doesn’t respond straight away, focusing on his breathing and his heartbeat, willing it to settle. He’s alive. He’s breathing. Charles saved his life. He looks up at his savior.

“Shit… thank you,” he says as he takes another settling breath and reaches for his hat, fallen on the floor beside the man who’d nearly killed him- now with a throwing knife embedded in his eye. Charles offers his arm and Arthur grasps it, letting himself be pulled back up. His grasped hand lingers on Charles arm and he tells himself it’s because he’s dizzy, lightheaded on the account of being nearly choked to death.

He’s still collecting himself when a shot rings through the air and hits the earth far too close to where they’re standing for comfort. Both men break apart and start running towards the source. Arthur puts a mental pin in the whole almost-dying thing and lets an almost primal kind of adrenaline push him onwards.

“Shots are coming from the barn, come on!” and they’re running again, Arthur points his revolver at a shooter on the porch in front of the barn and lets loose a round of bullets. The shooter goes down, tumbling down the stairs. Another shot fires off and barely misses Arthur, hitting the ground somewhere just behind him.

“He’s backing off inside, get after him!” Charles is shouting as he’s sprinting and Arthur hurls himself up the stairs. Inside the barn, he’s blinded for a second at the change in lighting, but he sees the running on the other side, pointing a rifle straight at Arthur. He lunges forward and quickly covers the distance between him and his attacker. In the next second, the bounty hunter has a hole in his head and Arthur is standing over him, breathing hard as his survival-based adrenaline finally begins to ebb away.

“Looks to be the last of them, let’s head back to Trelawney” he grunts, bending down to loot the body and take the fancy-looking rifle from the dead man. He looks to find Charles standing at the barn’s entrance, weapon placed back in his holster, but shoulders still tense from the rush. “You alright?”

“Sure… never goes easy, does it?” Charles responds, falling into step beside him as Arthur catches up and they make their way out of the barn and back to the cornfields.

“Sure don’t,” Arthur sighs.

“You sure _you’re_ alright, Arthur?” Charles looks over him and his gaze settles around his neck. Arthur’s sure a pretty angry bruise is starting to form; his throat aches and his voice is even scratchier and coarser than normal.

“I’ll be fine, let’s go see how badly they beat up the slippery feller,” Arthur dismisses with a slight wave of his hand.

“I wonder how much trouble he’s brought with him,” Charles comments as they make their way.

“Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Arthur darkly chuckles.

“Seems we can’t catch a break now,” Charles continues and Arthur hums in agreement.

“Our lucks held this long… we got outta worse scrapes than this one,” he assures, but he’s pretty sure this ‘scrape’ they’re in now is a lot bigger than they think, and the more trouble they stir up the worse it’s going to get.

“So I’ve heard,” Charles says pensively.

“Sure, what’s government agents and bounty hunters to us?” Arthur chuckles again with a shrug, but his laugh is too hollow to be convincing and next to him, Charles frowns.

“I hope you’re right.”

They walk through the corn, and the wind rustles over them. The silence in the cornfields now is almost mocking him, reminding him that he almost _died_ here. Arthur kicks the thought away. He’s almost died in a lot of places. This ain’t a first for him. He almost died a few weeks ago in the woods when Kieran had led them to Colm O’Driscoll’s supposed hiding place with John and Bill. Almost dying wasn’t a new thing for Arthur, no, but being strung up and feeling all of the air leave your body isn’t the greatest experience in the world and it shakes Arthur more than he’d ever admit. 

Josiah is sitting on a chair outside the cabin he’d been held in and the sight is actually quite jarring. Normally, he’s dressed in smart clothes with pomade in his hair and his mustache curled slightly at the end. Now his clothes are tattered and spattered with blood and dirt and his face is red and blue with cuts and bruises. He tells them about the bounty hunters and reassures Arthur that he didn’t say anything about Dutch or the gang and he sounds sincere enough as he and Charles help the injured man up onto one of the bounty hunters’ horses.

“Seems you stirred up quite a hornet’s nest in Blackwater,” Trelawney groans as he sits on his horse.

“So I keep hearing,” Arthur grumbles. Goddamn Blackwater. He doesn’t feel like thinking about it.

“It might be best if I stay with you gentlemen for a while,” Trelawney starts cautiously. Arthur can’t remember the last time they had Trelawney at camp, and usually he wouldn’t even know where it was for a reason. Reasons like being kidnapped by bounty hunters. But Arthur nods anyway and they ride back to camp.

Predictably, Trelawney talks the whole way and Arthur and Charles just share an exasperated and exhausted look.

Hours later, after the sun had gone down and Trelawney had been settled in and his wounds cleaned, Arthur found himself sitting on the small dock near camp, close enough to hear some of the voices of the gang as they sung or talked over the campfires. Distantly, Javier plays his guitar. His boots are off and he’s dipped his toes in the water, warmed by the heat of the day even after the sun has gone down. It’s a pleasant evening, Arthur thinks, seeing fireflies in the distant islets off the coastline and along the water. The moon is nearly full and glimmers on the surface of the lake in front of him. After the commotion of the day, it’s a peaceful night.

He hears muffled footsteps behind him and turns to see Charles approaching, pausing on the sand just before the wooden dock with two beer bottles in his hand.

“Hey,” he says, and slightly raises one of the bottles, “care for some company?”

“Sure,” Arthur drawls, ‘ _if it’s you? Always’_ is what he wants to say, but the words don’t come out. Arthur had been quiet for most of the evening once they’d gotten back. He’d briefed Dutch on the situation and then left, gone to brush Hercules and spend some time with the stallion, who he was still bonding with. Getting Hercules was probably one of the highlights of the last few weeks for Arthur, what with all the drama and the being a _deputy_ of all things, and the Romeo and Juliet situation and just… everything. He smiled as he recalled that first day with Herc, and the race he’d had with Charles. Some highlights indeed, among the growing shadows of his life.

The wood creaks as Charles steps closer, he offers a beer to Arthur who takes it with a murmured _thanks_ as he takes a sip. Charles kicks off his own boots and sets his own bottle down for a second to roll up his pants legs before he sits next to Arthur and has a sip of his own beer. They sit together for a while, enjoying the ambient sounds of the camp and the nature around them and the feel of the water on their feet.

Arthur doesn’t think that there’s a single other person in the gang right now who he could do this with- just sit in a companionable quietness that is only otherwise found in the company of the horses (and even that is only because horses aren’t _people_ and therefore don’t say things, they just are). In fact, Arthur racks his brain, trying to think of another person he’d ever felt so at ease with and his mind lands on Mary, back when they were together and- well. Maybe it’s not the same thing. He was in love with Mary then, but Charles is, well he’s _Charles._ Arthur feels weird, comparing the two. He takes a long pull from his beer.

“You know, Arthur,” Charles says after a long while, and his voice sounds odd in the growing stillness of the night, “I, uhm… you know you can talk to me. I… I know what it’s like. What happened to you today, I mean…” he drifts off, and Arthur think it’s unusual for Charles to be unsure of his words. He looks at the man with a curious, and maybe a little concerned, gaze.

“You mean the almost dyin’ like that?” He asks, lifting an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Charles exhales a small chuckle, “yeah… some fool tried to lasso me like an animal, once. I got away, obviously… the guy who tried to kill me did not.” His eyes darken, no doubt recalling the grim memory. Arthur looks down. He’d wondered about Charles’ years alone, how he’d learned as many survival skills as he knew now.

“Well, I’m glad he didn’t,” Arthur stated, looking back up to the man next to him, “you.. you’re a good man to have around, Charles. You’re probably the best friend I got in the gang, too,” he breathes out a light chuckle, letting himself smile easily. The stars are back in Charle's eyes and Arthur can't keep himself from looking at him for maybe a breath too long.

“Heh, you too, Arthur,” Charles smiles back and holds his bottle up. They clink and take a sip, sitting in silence once more and enjoying the night and the clear air and the soft breeze. Arthur’s heart beats in his chest and he takes a deep breath, happy to still be alive for this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, i haven't written it in or anything but let's just assume that arthur doesn't beat Thomas Downes bloody and doesn't get tuberculosis because i really can't be bothered to write this precious boah with TB and we're all on here reading fix-it fics for a reason.  
> that being said, i haven't decided how much i'm going to fix. but he won't have TB.
> 
> this is gonna be the last chapter i post for at least a week because i've got some travel ahead of me and i won't have time to get back into writing until wednesday, and then i still gotta actually write. hopefully by next weekend we'll see a new chapter. don't forget to click subscribe or bookmark if you're enjoying this so far! any and all support is greatly appreciated and keeps me going :) 
> 
> i've also been working on some illustrations for some of the chapters already up, so keep an eye out for that as well!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> takes place during/after "an honest mistake" because i saw an opportunity for something and i had to take it

After the day in the cornfield, something seems to shift between Arthur and Charles. He notices that they often seem to find each other in camp- around the fires in the evening, the coffee pot in the morning, the hitching posts during the day. It’s a comfortable thing, Arthur thinks, having Charles’ presence always… _around_ , nearby and reassuring. It wasn’t that Arthur didn’t have any other friends in camp, the gang was his family after all. He greeted everyone warmly when he by passed them and occasionally sat down for a chat with one of the girls or a card game with whoever was around. But for whatever reason, it felt different with Charles. Wasn’t a big deal, it just was what it was.

He’s sitting at the table one day, getting his ass kicked at dominos by Tilly. He doesn’t even know why he sat down when she’d asked if he was up for a round, he always lost. But it made Tilly laugh and that was good enough for him. Sure enough, she puts down her final piece and grins at Arthur, who sighs in defeat. Was barely even a match, honestly.

“Are you sure you ever learned the rules, Arthur?” she asks, picking up the pieces of Arthur’s loss.

“Hosea taught me, same as you. Guess I’m just not as clever,” he shrugs, looking at her with a familial fondness in his eyes. She’s one of the good ones, he thinks, even if he does worry about her being so young and running with a bunch of outlaws. Clever, kind, and braver than most of the men. He’d offered Howard to her and the grin she’d given him in response was worth the horse’s weight in gold, she’d thanked him and promised to take good care of the bay gelding. He already trusted that she would and was happy to offer her a horse of her own instead of one of the spares they kept around camp. She giggles and they sit in each other’s company, enjoying some peace and the warmth of the sun on their backs. Arthur knows he should probably get to work, go find some leads or something, but he can’t bring himself to leave.

“So,” Tilly starts, fiddling with one of the dominoes, “you and Charles seem to be spending more time together these days.”

Arthur shrugs in response, but his mind races to try and think of a reason why she’d be bringing it up. Wasn’t strange was it? Why would it be? Nothing strange at all. “Is that bad?”

“No, no, not at all! Just nice to see, I suppose, you seem happier. Less lonely,” she shrugs back, looking down at the table.

“Did I seem lonely before?” Arthur asks, though he supposes she might be right. It wasn’t rare for him to keep to himself at camp, especially after the rift between him and John after he’d run off. Arthur socialized with everyone in small amounts, but outside of meals or parties, it was usually just brief conversations here and there to check in with everyone and see if there was anything anyone needed. And then he’d ride off, running errands or jobs for Dutch or just plain exploring the area. Almost always on his own.

“A little. Especially after the whole thing with John,” she looks at him again, a look in her eyes that Arthur can’t really read. He ducks under the rim of his hat to avoid her strangely knowing look. John, his brother, his closest partner until he up and _left_ for an entire year. Arthur remembers the hurt, the anger, the disbelief that he’d just leave Abigail and little baby Jack like that. That he’d abandon Hosea and Dutch, who took him in and raised him. That he’d just…. leave, without telling Arthur. They’d fought plenty, sure, but in the end, they were still brothers and Arthur thought that they were closer than that. The more Arthur thought about it, the more he realized Tilly might be right. Besides maybe Hosea- who he viewed as his father figure even more so than Dutch- he couldn’t really think of anyone he’d say was his _friend._ Now, thinking about it, Arthur wondered what friendship even means outside of the gang setting. He lived with the gang, ate with them, fought with and for them, would be happy to die for them (except Micah, who he’d happily have left behind in Strawberry if Dutch didn’t take such a liking to the man), but friends? Hmm.

“I think it’s good for Charles, too. He always seems so stoic and serious, you know?” Tilly continues.

Arthur hums in response, not knowing quite what he was supposed to say. What would he say if it were someone else? The back of his neck burns at talking about Charles, for some reason. He wishes she’d change the subject. Tilly starts to say something else, but Miss Grimshaw shouts something towards her about getting to work and Tilly rolls her eyes at Arthur as she bids him a farewell and goes off. He gets up as well and begins to walk towards the horses, thinking maybe he’ll take advantage of today- a day he’s declared as a lazy day for himself because it’s too hot and he’s been busy running around for too long. First with finding Trelawney, some bounties he’d picked up for extra cash, some odd requests he’d stumbled upon from strangers on his travels- the latest of which was an odd fellow named Albert Mason who Arthur had actually gotten quite fond of and hoped to see again, if the man didn’t get himself eaten by wolves or some other equally dangerous beast before then.

“Arthur, could I have a quick word?” He’s walking by when a familiar Irish-accented voice calls out to him and he turns to see Molly sat against a tree, waving a dainty hand towards him.

“Yes, Miss O’Shea?” He asks, trying to make his voice more pleasant. She’s certainly one of the, erm, fancier members of their miss-matched family. Arthur wonders if Dutch actually sees any value in her or if he just thinks she’s pretty. She certainly is feisty when she wanted to be, and Arthur knew that dealing with Dutch could not be an easy task. Molly was tougher and smarter than she looked, he was sure of it.

“Ack, call me Molly, would ye?” she scoffs as she takes his hand when he offers it to help her up. “Arthur, how is Dutch? I mean, how does he seem to you?”

“About the same as usual, I guess,” Arthur shrugs, but he knows it’s not the complete truth. Something was off with their wise and fearless leader, and Arthur knew it. He’d known the man too long to not see the change in him since the mess in Blackwater. Arthur’s journal was full of scribbles about the events of the past few weeks, and Dutch’s behavior reflected in the words set an uneasy pit in Arthur’s stomach. But he never voiced these thoughts, these _doubts_ as Dutch would call them. Suddenly everything was always about _faith_ and _trust_ and all those goddamn _plans_ and Arthur was just getting more nervous by the day.

“I… I really love him, you know,” she continues, her voice sadder than Arthur would assume one’s should be when talking about a loved one. “But if he…. Like he always says, loyalty is everything, so…”

She doesn’t get to finish; Uncle is walking over calling for Arthur and excusing himself to Miss O’Shea and she walks off- unsaid words hanging in the air. He should find her later, see if he can get her to finish what she was saying. Sounded important.

“I bring a gift! The great gift of information,” Uncle waves his hands in the air and Arthur rolls his eyes.

“So, you got some tip off, so now I can risk _my_ neck, and make _you_ some money while you lounge around,” Arthur waves an irritated hand towards the old men, recalling a few of Uncle’s _previous_ tips that had landed Arthur in more trouble than they were worth.

“You know, Arthur, bitterness, it works on the inside, as well as on your sour face.”

“If you say so,” Arthur sighs, leaning against the tree. What’s that even supposed to mean? “But you can go find some other fool to run your errands.”

“Bill!” Uncle waves at the man passing nearby and Arthur is surprised to see Charles walking by his side, he wonders where they were going. Wouldn’t have pinned them to spend any time together unless they had to. “Will you be my other fool? You too Charles.”

Arthur almost wants to say that Charles ain’t no fool, but he comes over anyway, glancing at Arthur with a questioning look that he answers with an unamused shrug.

“What are you talking about?” Bill grunts, already on the defensive about being called a fool.

“Arthur’s above a little stick up I heard about.”

“No I’m not,” Arthur scowls.

“Well you just said- “

“Hey, I’ll do it. As long as you ride with us.” He turns to face Uncle so it’s the three of them versus the one of him. 

“I got a serious medical condition,” Uncle begins his excuses and Arthur snorts, pulling out a cigarette from his pockets and lighting it.

“Yes, you are a compulsive liar,” he takes a drag of the smoke, letting it surround him.

“No need to be like that. Charles! Have I ever lied to you?” Uncle continues, pulling out all the stops now.

“I hardly know you,” Charles states and Arthur can hear the confused amusement in his voice. He looks at Arthur again, a look asking _is he always like this?_ Arthur just takes another drag of the cigarette in his hand in response.

“Exactly! Now you boys should do this, it’s easy… and I’ll only take a small commission for my information. But it’s now, or never.”

“Then it’s never,” Arthur says, sharing a look with Charles again and turning to walk away.

“Oh, God help me,” behind him, he hears Uncle finally relent and Arthur’s glad that his back is turned to hide his self-satisfied smirk, “fine, I’ll do it.”

“Well, what is it?” Arthur turns back to the group, gaze only stopping at Charles- with his thumbs tucked into his belt and his weight leaning on one leg- for a split second before looking back at the old man giving them the details. It’s some supposed supply wagon, easy pickings. Supposedly.

As they ride out of camp, Bill talks to Uncle about this or that and how _he’s_ been doing more work than the rest of them and Arthur tunes them out. He focuses on Hercules- who’s been a fast learner even though there has been a few more clumsy falls and stumbles after that first day that Arthur doesn’t think about- no one was there to witness so therefore it didn’t happen. He hadn’t gotten himself hurt again, which was a bonus. Beside him, Taima keeps pace. She had been a good influence on the young stallion, just as Arthur had hoped. He doesn’t know if it’s because of that first ride out together, but Hercules had stuck by her side since then and she’d only nipped at him a few times while he was still learning the pecking order. Now, they were at ease with one another, grazing near each other along with Howard out in the herd.

The fields of Lemoyne stretch out before them as they line up and wait for the wagon. Charles, honorable and considerate as ever, reminds them all to keep this quiet and clean. _No one needs to die here._ And Arthur hopes he’s right, though he is wary of Bill’s tendency towards the opposite mentality of “shoot first, think later.” Arthur feels caught in between.

Soon enough, the wagon comes into view and they spring into action, galloping towards the unsuspecting drivers and holding them up.

“You know, boys… I- I don’t- I don’t want to get shot, but you’re making a mistake. I work for Cornwall Kerosene and Tar…. Mr. Leviticus Cornwall.” One of the drivers says, his raised arms trembling in the wind in the face of the four outlaws pointing weapons at him.

“Oh great,” Arthur mutters, goddamn Cornwall _again_. Did this man own the entire region or what?

He starts to dismount as Bill says something about how Cornwall is surely rich enough to share the wealth and not miss it too much, only to be rebutted by the driver’s reassurance that he _will_ miss it very much indeed. Arthur thinks that the driver is possibly right, but they’ve come too far to stop now. Charles dismounts and hops in the wagon as Arthur breaks into the lockbox at the back. In the wagon, Charles has taken out his hatchet to open another box. Arthur doesn’t stare at the strong swing that breaks the lock in one go. He looks at the cash in his hand, counting it out. So far, so good, nearly a thousand. Maybe Uncle was right about this, for once in his life.

“Shit,” Bill breathes, and shouts a warning. Arthur turns and sure enough, their luck has run out. Not that they ever had it in the first place, really. He turns to Hercules and sees Charles leap over the side of the wagon, reaching Taima in just a few long strides and then they’re all off- on the run again.

Arthur fires a few shots behind him, hoping it’ll deter their pursuers just long enough to make a break for it. The horses gallop and Hercules, bless him, doesn’t let the bullets whizzing past him distract from the simple job of _running._

They lose the guards after a patch of woods, hopping a fence and finding themselves at a seemingly abandoned homestead.

“Let’s hide in here!” Uncle shouts as they reach an empty barn near the house and the group dismounts. Arthur gives Hercules a soothing stroke before slapping his haunches with a _get out of here, I’ll see you later_ and he just hopes that Herc is smart enough to at least follow Taima- who knows this drill by now.

“Alright, let’s get out of sight. Come on,” Arthur herds his companions into the barn, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was around to see the suspicious lot of them, “we’ll stay until dark and then we’ll sneak outta here.”

His heart is in his throat as he heads into the barn. Of course, the wagon was Cornwall’s. Because the shit they’d already stirred up with the mogul wasn’t already bad enough. Sure, why not make it worse? They already had an army of Pinkertons and bounty hunters after them all, surely privately hired guns wouldn’t make any difference. He grumbles to himself as they settle in, with Charles keeping the first watch. Uncle is napping a minute later and Arthur scowls, leaning against the wooden boards of the barn. Bill goes off to his own corner and Arthur tips his hat over his eyes, trying to calm his heartbeat long enough to rest and process the events that led them to this.

It’s in vain, he knows, trying to rest. And after about an hour he gives up and looks around. The sun is setting, casting long shadows on the land and slats of golden-orange light through the windows and the gaps between the boards of the barn. If he weren’t hiding and fearing for his life and those of the men with him, the sight would actually be beautiful. Dust dances in the fading sunlight and Arthur wishes he had the artistic capability of capturing such a subtle thing. He wonders if anyone does. Charles is squatting in the shade near one of the windows, not far from where Arthur has settled, peeking out periodically. The rays of the fading sun outline his profile and his hair and Arthur wishes he had the artistic capability of capturing that, too. For the sake of understanding how light and shading works, if nothing else.

Charles must feel Arthur’s gaze on him because in the next second, their eyes meet and Arthur blinks. Was he staring so intently? Hadn’t realized.

“You alright?” Charles whispers, low enough that it stays between them. Uncle snores heavily on the other side of the barn and Bill is scowling in his corner-napping lightly.

“Mm,” Arthur mumbles, looking down at the dry hay and straw beneath him, “just thinkin’ about our luck.”

“What luck?” Charles breathes a dark chuckle, peeking out the window again.

“Exactly,” Arthur sighs, and leans his head back against the wall. The movement dislodges his hat, but he can’t bring himself to care much. Eventually, he switches places with Charles and tells him to rest for a bit, while he can. Unsurprisingly, Charles doesn’t rest, though he does let Arthur take over the watch.

Some more time passes and the orange hues of the sky outside turn red, then violet, and finally night settles in.

“Alright… let’s try and get outta here,” he says, tapping a sleeping Bill who wakes with a start and a swear in his typical manner.

“Absolutely!” Uncle starts and Arthur isn’t having it, it’s the old man’s fault they were hiding like this in the first place. They start to argue but Charles’ deep voice cuts them off.

“Shut up! There’s a light, over by the house,” Charles backs up to join them in the shadowed recess of the barn.

“ _Damn,”_ Arthur mutters, once again herding his companions into hiding places. “Let’s just keep this calm…. See what happens.”

Three men knock on the door of the farmhouse and Arthur can hear a new voice- supposedly the owner of the barn they were hiding in- and a nervous coat of sweat blooms over his skin. They interrogate the homeowner and for a fraction of a second, Arthur wonders if maybe by some miracle he didn’t see anything and will just tell the guards that there was nothing suspicious and maybe… they could all just get away. But of course, the man speaks, saying something about a sound he heard by the barn and from his hidden vantage point, Arthur can see the man pointing straight at him. Two of the men turn come down from the house and into the barn and Arthur’s heart is beating very uncomfortably in his throat. He hopes and prays to a God, if there is one, that Bill and Uncle can just stay quiet and patient and _calm_ for once. Charles, he knows, he doesn’t need to worry about- he’s the most capable and Arthur trusts him above Bill and Uncle to keep his head. They just need to wait. One of the guards enters the barn and Arthur doesn’t breathe, hopes that it’s enough, hopes that the man doesn’t look just a little to his right into the shadowed corner that Arthur is hiding in. His hand is at his hip, floating over his pistol, muscles braced for action. He can see the silhouette of Charles, hiding on the opposite side of the barn from him, the light from the guard’s lantern glints on Charles’ drawn weapon.

“Place looks empty to me, the old guy up there is full of crap,” the lawman says, turning back around and Arthur breathes again. Just a few more moments, and they could all get out of this without any more bullets, without a single drop of blood.

“Yeah, I don’t think they’re here, I don’t see any horses,” a second voice responds from outside the barn.

“C’mon, let’s head back,” the first lawman calls out, turning to leave, “Boss! Place is empty!” Arthur almost celebrates.

Almost.

Somewhere in the back of the barn, there’s a clatter- Bill shouting ‘ _shit!’_ , and all at once hell breaks loose. The man that had been inside the barn turns to look for the disturbance, only to be met with Charles’ shot as he takes out the lantern and the man holding it. Arthur curses. He should’ve known they’d have to shoot their way out, when don’t they?

Men descend on them as Arthur dives near one of the openings of the barn, slinging the rifle from his back into his hands as he fires towards the hoard of men quickly arriving to the scene. Uncle is shouting something about more men on the side he’s on, and a quick glance shows Arthur that they are very quickly becoming surrounded. Inside the barn, they’re no better than fish in a barrel. Arthur grits his teeth, exhaling and firing a few more shots before moving to another side of the barn, shooting another few rounds in that direction. The smell of gunpowder floods his senses and a familiar kind of adrenaline pulses in his veins.

“Looks like Mr. Cornwall’s gone and upped his security,” he shouts over the bullets zipping past, splintering the wooden boards around them.

In the dark, it’s chaos. Uncle is shouting something; Bill is roaring as he points and shoots out the window on his side of the barn. Only Charles is quiet, focused on the task at hand- which always seems to be _to survive._ He can barely make out the heads of the oncoming men, seeing them faintly outlined by the glow of the moon and the burst of light from their guns as they fire.

Just when it seemed like maybe they could actually shoot their way out, with the number of men firing on them surely dwindling as Arthur’s bullets find their mark, even more chaos descends- this time in the form of fire. The barn, previously shrouded in shadows, is starting to light up at a very alarming rate. Arthur shouts a warning and his eyes land on Charles, who’s far too close to the quickly spreading flame, but who’s still focused on taking down some of their pursuers.

“Shit! Fire, from the lantern!” Arthur shouts, ducking over near where Charles is and only standing to provide some cover while they back away from the encroaching flames.

Arthur moves to the back and checks on his crew, Bill is cursing again, scowling deep as he keeps firing outside.

“Nicely done Bill, they teach you that move in the army too?” Arthur hears Charles growl, sounding more frustrated than Arthur’s heard in a while. Uncle berates Bill too, only to be rebutted with a _‘it’s you who got us into this mess!’_ and then they’re all bickering, saying something about _not_ robbing from Cornwall for a while and Arthur just grinds his teeth further at the men beside him while he’s still trying to focus on eliminating the threats outside the barn so maybe they could make a run for it. The fire has grown, spreading across the entire front- and the entrance of- the barn. The heat is making Arthur sweat.

“If we don’t get out of here soon, we’re charcoal!” Arthur yells, his eyes roaming around to try and find another exit. Instead they land on Charles, again- _too close to the goddamn flames-_ and Arthur’s about to shout a warning when the front of the barn collapses inwards, spouting loose embers and sparks that make Arthur instinctively lunge forwards, grabbing a fistful of Charles' shirt as he heaves them both backwards before burning beams crash into the ground, having just barely missed crushing Charles and Arthur only breathes the smallest sigh of relief. Charles grips his arm and they share the briefest of looks before they’re aiming their weapons at the windows again, though it’s quickly becoming harder and harder to breathe.

The fire, so bright in contrast to the darkness of before, is consuming everything in its path. The dry straw that had been on the ground fuels its path towards Arthur and his fellows. They’re backed into what must’ve been a stall once, where the back wall is missing a few boards that Bill quickly kicks in and knocks away to create an opening just big enough for them to slip through. Arthur stays behind, pushing Uncle through and then Charles, who reaches back to help Arthur through the hole in the barn. They bolt, running back towards the woods, ducking and dodging whizzing bullets that always seem to get just too close. The shooting becomes a fraction quieter as Cornwall’s men quickly begin sprinting after them, the sound of bullets now accompanied by the sound of shouting and feet stomping through the underbrush.

“Let’s split up a bit, try to confuse them,” Uncle wheezes as they pause at a small creek, catching their breaths for the shortest of seconds. “Arthur, with me.” Bill and Charles sprint off in the opposite direction and Arthur’s breath unexplainably hitches as he follows Uncle into the dark. They find a large boulder and Arthur slides into a crouch behind it, Uncle taking in big gulps of air as he tries to quieten his breathing. He can hear Cornwall’s men in the distance and sees the light of two of them approaching his and Uncle’s hiding spot.

The two come up with a quick, and hopefully silent, battle plan. The men pass by them and light bathes Arthur’s vision as he quietly stands up and sneaks to his unsuspecting target, throwing knife clutched in a tight fist. His muscles brace and he throws the knife- hitting true to the back of the man’s skull and he falls with a dull thud as Uncle tackles the other one. The pair struggle for a bit and Uncle is overpowered, the man above him raising his hands to choke him. Arthur takes out another knife and launches it straight at the attacker’s eye- and his mind echoes back to a vision of Charles in a cornfield.

Uncle sputters and throws the newly bloodied body to the side, scrambling up and thanking Arthur.

In the distance, they hear gunshots and shouting, and Arthur is moving before Uncle even finishes his warning _‘Uh-oh! Looks like they got some trouble over there!’_

His heart beats loudly in his chest, adrenaline pushing him to easily cover the distance of the uneven forest ground. He sees a man behind a tree, shooting towards two familiar silhouettes taking cover behind a large rock, and tackles him to the ground before unholstering his pistol and ending the man in a vicious spray of blood.

He quickly moves and ducks behind the cover of the thickest tree he can see and glances at his companions. Bill is half-stood, half-crouched, hand quickly loading and reloading his rifle as he aims and shoots in practiced and drilled-in ease. Arthur glances quickly at the attackers; some on the ground and a few men on horseback- one is knocked down as Bill hits his mark and the horse rears, shrieking away from the fight.

“Charles got hit!” Bill shouts towards Arthur when he sees him, nodding his head at the man crouched behind him.

Arthur looks back and sees Charles, hunched in on himself though still holding up his shotgun and Arthur’s heart lurches when he sees the side of Charles’ shirt stained nearly black with blood. He points and shoots at one of the approaching foot soldiers and the kickback from the shot elicits a painful groan as Charles doubles over.

Arthur’s heart beats even more uncomfortably now and all he can hear is the blood rushing to his brain as he pulls out his rifle- his concentration on the enemies narrowing his vision even in the dark o the night and time itself seems to slow as Arthur mentally marks each enemy on the inhale and moves his rifle to the side, firing on the exhale -

_One_

Down goes the closest man on the ground- a hole through his heart.

_Two_

The rider behind him, bleeding out from his neck and toppling over.

_Three_

The last rider keels over- a hole in his head as his horse bucks off the dead weight.

“Shit! Arthur!” Bill shouts, whooping in astonishment. It had never been said that Arthur Morgan was not a good shot.

But he doesn’t gloat, doesn’t revel in the victorious quickfire adrenaline. He shoulders the rifle and closes the distance between him and Charles, a hand landing on his shoulder. Charles is clutching his right side, the dark fluid that pours out of him seeping through his fingers.

“It’s just a graze,” Charles says through gritted teeth. Arthur scowls.

Charles attempts to straighten and take a step forward, and Arthur can see how the hand pressed against the wound at his side tightens. Arthur lingers, holding up an arm just in case-

Charles doubles over again with another grunt of pain and Arthur is there immediately, pressing his hand to Charles’ over the bleeding injury. He glares over at Uncle, who’s looking on with concern on his face. Bill is silent too, scowl in place as ever too. When it came to gunfights, Charles was usually the last of them to get hurt, and they all knew that this was worrisome.

“I’ll deal with you later,” he growls, jabbing a mean finger at Uncle as he positions himself behind Charles, arm wrapping around his middle to support the man’s weight.

“We got some money, didn’t we?” Uncle defends, raising his arms up.

“Sure, but now we got _Cornwall_ on our backs again.”

“It- it was an honest mistake-” Uncle stumbles as Arthur waves a hand in annoyance.

“Leave it. Go on, get out of here, both of you. I’ll get Charles back. Stay quiet and _move._ ”

Bill and Uncle scurry off in different directions, whistling for their horses. Arthur feels the weight of Charles’ arm over his shoulder and pressed along his side and he tells himself the only reason that his heart is beating so damn _loud_ is because his best man was injured and bleeding heavily and they were still not completely out of danger. Arthur whistles for Hercules and isn’t surprised when Taima is right alongside him as they gallop over a small hill towards them, ears pricked as she sees her rider.

“Can you ride?” Arthur asks, trying to keep his voice casually gruff. Charles furrows his brow as he looks down and from the corner of his eye, he can see Charles’ fist tighten from where it hangs over Arthur’s shoulder. With a painful sigh, Charles shakes his head. He looks faint from the blood loss and Arthur tightens his hold on the man, slowly approaching Hercules. He’s the bigger horse out of him and Taima, and Arthur is confident he can carry the weight. Those legs may be long, but they were as sturdy as a work horse. He quickly guides Hercules so that he’s slightly downhill from them, hopefully making it easier for Charles to mount up.

Without a word, Arthur moves and helps Charles push himself up- even as he groans in pain all the while. Arthur tries to swallow the lump in his throat as he steps behind Hercules and frog leaps onto his haunches, scooting forward until he’s pressed up against of the back of the saddle and leaning into Charles, moving his hand back to Charles’ injury to try and keep as much pressure on it as possible. The blood feels hots and sticky and _wrong_ as it stains Arthur's palm. 

Taima nickers softly as she trots alongside them as they move out and Charles mutters an apology, Arthur clicks his tongue and squeezes his legs, shifting Hercules up into an easy canter that takes them over the Meadows. He needs to get Charles to camp, but with the way that robbery went he knows he can’t go _directly_ back to camp in case anyone is still looking for them.

“We need to bandage you up,” Arthur thinks out loud, looking around to see if there’s anyone around to see or chase them. He sets course for a familiar dried up creek bed where he knows remains of a camp are probably still hidden and it’s out of the way enough to be safe until enough time had passed for them to get back to camp.

Charles only hums, though where it usually sounds like honey it now sounded pained, cracked. Arthur’s brow furrows and he tries not to blame himself for this because he _knew_ it wasn’t his fault and yet he still felt guilty. But he’d feel guilty about anyone being shot while they were out on a job together, he’d do this for anyone. He’d always help his family.

He just wasn’t sure his heart would thump just as loudly if it were anyone else. When he’d been with Mary, his greatest fear had been her getting hurt because of _his_ lifestyle. He dreaded her being caught in the crossfire and ultimately, it may have been one of the nails in the coffin of their relationship.

Arthur blinked, wondering why Mary and his feelings toward her had resurfaced in his mind when he’s thinking about Charles. He clenches his jaw and brushes away errant thoughts, focusing on riding and the body he’s holding in front of him and the possibly life-threatening injury he’s going to have to treat somehow.

He finds the remains of the German’s camp and dismounts before Hercules has come to a full stop, doing a quick check to the other end of the camp and back with his pistol in his hand before he returns to Hercules when it’s clear, holstering the pistol once more and reaching up as Charles dismounts- well, more like slides- off of the horse. Arthur shoulders his weight and wraps an arm around him as he leads him to a nearby tent with a cot in it, gently setting him down before turning and running back towards Hercules to get a lantern and some supplies- a bottle of gin, bandages, and some yarrow- remembering a note in a book he’d read on medicinal plants once. He rushed back over to Charles, lighting the lamp and setting it on a nearby crate. Charles was sitting up with his legs swung over the cot, a hand still gripping his injury while the other gripped the edge of the cot with pale knuckles. He scowled at the ground, pain etched in his forehead and tension in the lines of his jaw.

“Here,” Arthur offered the gin, which Charles numbly took- but didn’t drink. Arthur kneels down next to him, “Got some yarrow, for the bleedin’, and some bandages.” At this, Charles, lifts an eyebrow- his pained scowl receding slightly.

“You know about yarrow?”

“Sure, I told ya,” he looks up at Charles with a slightly worried but humorous smirk, “I‘m a man of many talents.”

"That you are, my friend," Charles exhales what _might_ be a chuckle, or a grunt of pain, maybe both. He lifts his free hand to unbutton his shirt and Arthur quickly looks down at his own hands, grinding up some yarrow to make a slight paste. Because he needed to make a paste from the flowers anyway, not because he didn’t need a distraction from Charles opening his shirt and shaking out his right arm, wincing all the way when he was to lift his hand from the injury to do so.

Arthur looks up then, inspecting the wound. It was a graze, like Charles had said, but it was a nasty one. A deep, angry gash alongside the muscles lining his ribs. Arthur winces sympathetically, feeling a twinge in his own side as he imagines how painful it must be. Lucky the bullet didn’t seem to hit his lung. He looks at Charles and reaches for the gin, lifting it in a silent question. Or warning. Whatever.

He pours a bit of the gin over the wound and Charles hisses through his teeth, breathing through the sting. Arthur takes the yarrow in his other hand and, as gently as he can, spreads the plant matter onto the wound, focusing more on the parts that were still bleeding freely. He's not used to doing this- the first aid- for another person. He knows one thing or another about patching up wounds, but normally on himself. He tries to keep his hands gentle, flinching a bit at the heat and the blood of Charles' flesh. 

“I- I can do that, if you want to just give me the plant,” Charles voice is deep and scratchier than normal, and Arthur frowns up at him.

“You don’t have to,” he tells him, breaking apart some more flowers and grinding them up if a bit hastily before applying them to the wound.

“Mm,” Charles breathes, looking at Arthur with something he can’t recognize, “I’m not really used to having someone to do this for me,” he tries to chuckle, but he just squeezes his eyes shut in another wave of hurt.

“Well, get used to it,” Arthur says before he even realizes he’s said it. His face feels warm and he scowls again as he unwraps the bandages, ignoring Charles’ softer look and he presses a length of the gauze to the yarrow-ed up injury. Charles’ hands join his, taking the bandage and wrapping it through to the other side with careful movements. Together, they wrap the bandage a few times across Charles’ torso and Arthur steps back, satisfied for now. When they’re back at camp, it’s entirely possible he’ll need stitches. But for now, the bleeding has lessened, and they’re hidden. They can rest for a bit and then hopefully, make it back to camp with no one patrolling the roads.

He takes a few gulps of the gin in his hand before handing it back to Charles, who finally takes his own sips. Arthur sits back and rests against a nearby crate, leaning back and exhaling a big sigh. Charles lies down on the cot and does the same.

They sit in silence for a while, but when Arthur glances he sees that Charles isn’t sleeping. Just… gazing at the canvas ceiling. Arthur feels like he should say something, but doesn’t quite know where to start. He wonders what Charles was thinking about.

“We should probably wait here a bit longer, make sure there’s no one on the roads. Doubt they’ll stay up too late lookin’ for us,” Arthur breaks the silence, scratching his jaw. His beard is starting to grow in more fully, should probably be trimmed soon. Charles just hums, not finding words to be necessary. Arthur stands, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket out of habit and stepping just outside the tent as he lights it. The light of the moon filters through the trees above them and dapples the ground in silver. He turns towards where he knows the road is, listening for the sound of hooves hitting the ground. He sees a lonely fox scurry across the dry creek bed nearby, eyes glinting briefly in the low light. His mind wanders as he smokes, replaying the day, the adrenaline and the frustration and the fear at being nearly caught by Cornwall’s men. It lands on Charles again, fear for him clutching at a place beneath Arthur’s ribs. The fire, the collapsing barn, the gunshot that could have killed him if it were an inch to the right.

“Arthur,” a voice, quiet, deep as Flat Iron Lake, pulls Arthur back from his thoughts and he turns to see Charles’ eyes on him. “Thank you for, uh- you know. Helping.” Arthur gazes back, softened at the edges.

“Ah, ‘s nothin’… you’d do the same for me,” Arthur murmurs back and- though it surprises him a bit- he knows he’s telling the truth. Charles has already saved his life, has cleaned up his wounds, has always been there when he’s needed.

"Of course," Charles is looking at him with a look far too soft for the given situation-hiding out and nursing a bullet wound. Arthur shuffles under his gaze, glancing at the bandages.

“How’s the pain?”

“It hurts but… I can manage it,” Charles groans, leaning his head back with a tense sigh. His hair is pooled around him, having come undone from the tie that Charles had put it in at some point while they were in the barn. His shirt remains half-unbuttoned, with the right arm out of its sleeve and bandages crossing his torso, a stark contrast between light cloth and dark skin. Tough place to have a wound like that, Arthur thinks, thinking of all the motions and strength that relied on those muscles at the side of a man’s torso. Charles won’t be chopping wood anytime soon- though Arthur guesses the man will try to do so anyway. He tells himself to keep an eye on Charles over the next few days, make sure he’s letting himself _rest_ properly for once. Distantly, he notes that Charles doesn’t wear a union suit like most of the men in camp do. Arthur tries not to wonder why, or what he wears instead. Definitely ain’t his business.

Arthur finishes his cigarette in silence, just the sound of the breeze over them and the crickets chirping in the distance. Charles' voice bounces around in his head, his soft gaze, the way he'd clutched Arthur's arm earlier. He takes a breath and looks around again. It'd probably be safe to get back to camp now, see that Charles got some proper medical attention. 

“Alright,” Arthur says, moving back to the cot, “think you can stand?” He’s already reaching down as Charles nods and grasps Arthur’s arm with his own, letting himself be gently pulled up off the cot. If Arthur holds him closer than absolutely strictly necessary, he doesn’t notice. Charles is warm against Arthur’s side and in the slight chill of the night air, it’s a nice comfort. They mount up the same way they had before, Charles in the saddle- a little less woozy now the bleeding has been stifled- and Arthur behind him, an arm wrapped around his waist- cautious about the bandaged wound.

As Arthur leads Hercules back onto the road at an easy trot, with Taima trotting alongside, ears pricked as if confused as to why Charles isn’t on her back. He reaches an arm out with a small soothing noise from his throat and she relaxes, chewing on her bit and dropping her head as she followed along. 

“Beautiful night,” Charles murmurs, leaning his head back a bit to look up. The motion makes his head almost rest on Arthur’s shoulder, but he pretends not to notice it or the way that the close contact makes his skin feel much warmer, all of a sudden. He can feel the rumble of Charles’ voice in his chest as he spoke and Arthur tries to ignore that, too, and the way his own heart seems to rumble in response. “You were right, too,” he continues.

“’bout what?” Arthur asks, keeping cautious eyes on the pale moonlit road.

“Hercules is a really smooth ride,” Charles says with a light, muted chuckle. Arthur snorts out a small laugh and a ' _told ya so''_ in response, looking ahead to the old stone fences and the familiar patch of trees beyond. 

The ride to camp is short and, fortunately, uneventful. Lenny sees them approaching the tree line and waves before sprinting off towards the direction of camp- no doubt announcing their approach. They enter the camp and Miss Grimshaw and Strauss are already waiting for the injured arrival. As soon as Arthur helps Charles to the ground they’re there, taking him away towards the medicine tent. Arthur only lets his arms linger after Charles’ receding form for a split second before he brings it up to awkwardly scratch his jaw again. His feet take him forwards, trailing behind them as Charles is guided to the medicine wagon, until Dutch is calling him over and Arthur snaps his eyes towards him.

Arthur briefs Dutch- tells him about Cornwall’s upped security and how they probably just made themselves a much bigger blip in the rich man’s radar. In response, Dutch’s scowl deepens and the strange pit of concern in Arthur’s stomach shudders. He excuses himself, quickly putting in some of the gang’s cut from the robbery into the money box and writing it in the ledger. The smell of the night’s stew wafts over to him, but as Arthur glances in the direction of the cookpot he finds he has no appetite- his stomach still squeezing in nervousness. He walks to his own wagon instead, sparing a look to the nearby medicine wagon where he sees Miss Grimshaw crouched at Charles’ injured side and her arms move in an all-too-familiar sewing motion. Arthur sees the twitch in Charles’ eyebrows each time the needle must be piercing his skin and Arthur wonders if they’ve given him anything for the pain. But, knowing Charles, he’d probably have declined it to _save it for someone who needs it more_. Arthur sighs as he sits on his cot, taking out his journal and writing about the day’s events.

He sketches what he remembers of the barn before it burned down, tries to recreate the subtle light as it outlined a man’s silhouette. The pencil moves across the page as Arthur tunes into the image in his head, and then he blinks when he’s sketched out a familiar profile. His eyes dart up from his drawing, seeing the same profile he’d just etched onto paper stand up as he finally sets his arm down. Susan steps back from freshly wrapped bandages around his torso. _‘And make sure you rest, Charles! We need a quick recovery from you!’_ she’s chiding as he thanks her, quickly walking away and towards his own bedroll- no doubt exhausted and in pain and just needing to sleep.

Arthur feels a pang as he looks back down at his journal. It’s not an exact image, he didn’t even intend it to be anything close. But he’s drawn a familiar set of wide shoulders, the strong curve of a nose, streaming dark hair, just… Charles as he had kept guard in the shadows the barn had cast into the corners that they’d hidden themselves in.

The gunfire and the chase echoes in between his ears, his throat still feels a touch raw from inhaling smoke from the fire. His heart beats uncomfortably as he recalls how close death could’ve been for any of them. How close it had been to Charles- first in the burning barn and then nearly shot in the woods. If that bullet had been just an inch to one side… Arthur didn’t want to think about it.

Because it was _Charles._ His closest friend. A man who’d been steadily been teaching Arthur about patience and kindness of the past few weeks- since they’d started talking more after the hunting trip in Colter. As the tensions rose in camp and Dutch’s plans seemed to run more and more on bold assumptions and uncertain promises, Arthur had found a kind of solace in Charles’ company. An odd, vaguely familiar feeling of warmth settled somewhere in Arthur’s chest and he recalled a brief moment between them, weeks ago just before they’d moved to Clemens Point.

A starry night filled with old pirate rum and Arthur’s promise to find a harmonica. It wasn’t too long after that day that Arthur had headed out, ridden into town and asked where he’d find any musical instruments. Valentine, unfortunately, was devoid of such a shop, and Arthur resigned himself to riding possibly into Strawberry when he’d heard the familiar sound off of the trail he’d been riding on. He’d followed it to its source, and found a single man in front of a campfire- a hunter, if the strung up rabbits and drying deer pelts were anything to go by. The stranger had been welcoming, even at Arthur’s rude intrusion. He’d simply asked where he got the harmonica, and then only when the answer was _Saint Denis_ did Arthur scowl and ask if the man would consider selling the harmonica in his hand for a fair price- he didn’t want to go all the way into the city if he could get what he needed right here. If the man looked suddenly mildly panicked at Arthur’s furrowed brows and gritty voice, it wasn’t Arthur’s fault. He bought the harmonica fair and square.

Charles had been surprised a few hours later when Arthur had- maybe a little shyly- presented it to him. _‘I’m surprised you remembered’_ a chuckle, as he’d reached for the gifted harmonica. Arthur had shrugged, nonchalant, _‘just ran into a guy with it and I remembered,’_ he didn’t need to tell Charles that he’d ridden out that day with the singular intention of finding the requested object. ‘ _Don’t worry! I didn’t steal it or anythin’, bought it fair,’_ he’d added at Charles’ slightly narrowed eyes and raised brow- which quickly turned into a smirk and then an actual smile when Charles had thanked him.

Arthur realized now, recalling the memory, that he hadn’t actually heard Charles play yet. Would have to fix that soon. And Arthur found himself relieved, again, at the fact that Charles had made it out of the fight. He hoped he’d make it out of every fight.

His heart thumped in his chest and he snapped his journal shut, tucking it back to the safety of his satchel before kicking his boots off and setting his hat on the table beside his cot as he lay down.

Sleep came quickly enough, his heart still beating heavily and warm in his chest as he thought of inky black hair framing eyes full of stars. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i see... so many fics where charles takes care of arthur.... but not enough where arthur takes care of charles...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur makes sure Charles takes the proper time to recover

Arthur’s boots were on the ground before the sun appeared over the trees. The only one up at this hour- besides the guard keeping watch- was Kieran, feeding the horses their morning grain and mucking out their make-shift pastures. Arthur lugged a few bales of hay, waving off Kieran’s stuttered thanks as he divided up the feed on the ground. He gave Hercules a quick pat that went ignored by the stallion busy eating his breakfast. Arthur made his way over to the chuckwagon next, lifting some heavy bags of food from the supply wagon that hadn’t been unpacked yet. Once that was done, he stoked the cooking fire and prepared a tin of coffee. While that steeped, he checked the chickens and collected a nice batch of eggs that were dropped off at Pearson’s table- who was up and pouring himself a full cup of coffee.

“Mornin’, Morgan,” Pearson greets as Arthur sets down the small basket of eggs, “don’t normally see you helpin’ out around camp.”

“I help out plenty,” Arthur grumbles, and gestures to the eggs, “now do your job and cook these up, will you?”

Pearson waves him off with a nod and a grumble but he fishes out a frying pan and sets himself to making breakfast for everyone. Arthur stalks off, tipping his hat as he passes by the girls’ tent as they rise for the day. Mary-Beth greets him back with a still sleep-clogged _“Good morning Mister Morgan”_ and Arthur responds in kind before heading back over to the horses- who have moved on to hay once the grain was done. Taima sees his approach and softly nickers at him, Hercules throws his head up and does the same and Arthur smiles as the sight. Howard is there too, poking Arthur’s side where he had learned there’s usually a mint or two hiding in his pockets. Doesn’t take much convincing for Arthur to sneak in a treat, and he pulls out three mints for Howard, Hercules, and Taima, before he finds a brush near one of the hitching posts and sets to brushing them all down as they graze on the hay.

He’s just happy to help the camp in a way that doesn’t involve shooting or beating. Normally when he was in camp, all of these odd jobs of lifting hay and stoking fire and feeding chickens are already done or in the process by someone else.

That someone else was normally Charles.

But Charles was hurt, and Arthur knew that he’d try and do chores anyway. So, Arthur took them off his hands. A man needs his rest.

He’s sitting back at the fire, enjoying fresh coffee and fried eggs seasoned with thyme that Arthur had brought in a while ago when Miss Grimshaw had complained about the lack of seasoning in Pearson’s food, when he finally sees Charles finally up and about, just as the sun's beams begin to peek into the clearing they've been calling home. He’s wearing a simple grey button up shirt and Arthur wonders if that’s to more easily access his bandaged side. His eyes track the man’s movement as he heads to where the hay is normally kept and sees the slight surprise in the way his head tilts when he sees that there is no hay there. Next, he heads back, towards the cookfire, and Arthur smirks when he sees the same head tilt as before before leaning down and pouring himself a cup of coffee. Charles sees him at the table and comes to join him, holding the steaming mug that seems miniaturized in his large hands.

“Morning, Arthur,” he greets, wincing a little as he settles into his seat across from Arthur.

“Mornin’,” Arthur drawls casually, “how’re you feeling?” He nods towards Charles’s hidden bandages.

“Looked worse than it is, I think,” a sip of coffee, “I’ll be fine, there’s a lot of work to be done anyway.”

“You shouldn’t be working, Charles, you gotta rest for once,” Arthur raises a brow, “and mornin’ chores are done, anyway.”

“Oh,” Charles says and looks around, sees the chuck wagon fully stocked and a basket still holding eggs at the table, he looks back at Arthur- who’s trying to hide a smirk that’s maybe only a little self-satisfied. “Guess I’ll just… brush Taima down then.”

“Did that,” Arthur takes a bite of eggs, “figured I’d take it off your hands.” Charles raises a brow, so subtle Arthur barely catches it.

“And they’re all fed?”

“Split the job between me and Kieran.”

“And I’m assuming you unloaded the supply wagon from yesterday, too.”

“Yep,” Arthur scrapes the last fork full of his breakfast. Charles regards him, with a minutely raised brow and slightly narrowed eyes. Arthur keeps his expression neutral.

“Anyone chopped up some firewood yet?”

“Don’t even think about doing it yourself,” Arthur points his fork at the man and Charles sighs in response. “You’re _hurt_ , you need _rest._ ”

They stare each other down. Charles regards Arthur again, eyes looking down at the fork pointed at him and then back at Arthur.

“Did you take all my jobs so I wouldn’t do them?” His voice is soft as he asks, his head tilted again, and Arthur smirks.

“You work too hard,” he says simply, setting down the fork and standing up, “and people ‘round here love to remind me that I don’t work hard enough. So,” he shrugs. Charles is looking at him with an indefinable gaze that Arthur has to look away from before he gets lost in it. Others are starting to find their way to breakfast, the quiet camp finally rumbling with groans and yawns and shuffled footsteps as people started to mill about their morning routines. Arthur excuses himself and tries not to notice a pair of deep brown eyes trailing him as he walks off.

He keeps that routine up for the next few days and is always done in time to have breakfast with Charles who- thankfully- doesn’t try to push his luck with doing some odd jobs before his stitches have even come out.

Except for one time, on the third day, when Arthur had caught him trying to chop wood for the evening fires. He’d been out most of the day with Lenny after a tip about some hillbilly weapon dealers hiding in a place called Shady Belle. That day had ended much better that Arthur’s last mission out of camp- and they’d ridden in with a wagon of guns and explosives that Dutch was more than happy to welcome and praise them for. He’d stalked up to Charles, then, and merely just crossed his arms with an ‘ _ahem’._ Charles had tried to argue, ‘ _I’m fine, Arthur. Wounds closed up, stitches can come out_ soon _, I can chop a few logs of wood,”_ and Arthur just scowled at him until the axe was handed over and Charles let out a puff of air that Arthur thinks was meant to sound annoyed, but was just too bemused to do so.

A week later, the stitches had indeed come out and Charles had a new collection of various types of arrows, poultices, and wood carvings decorating his small corner of the camp. He’d even carved out a figure of a rearing horse, and Arthur’s heart felt like a steam engine when he’d found it sitting on bedside table in his wagon with a note saying _‘had a lot of free time this week.’_ It was a beautiful carving, and as Arthur inspected it he saw a small dewdrop etched into the forehead of the wooden horse. He looked around, trying to find Charles, but didn’t see him- he’d probably gone off for guard duty now that he had been given the clear by Miss Grimshaw after the wound had healed enough. He put a pin in his head to remind him to thank Charles properly next time he saw the man.

Barely got a chance to, though. He was on his way out when Bill called him over to where he was sitting on a wagon with Karen. He’d spouted something about a bank robbery they’d been cooking up since Horseshoe- though apparently it was _Arthur’s_ fault that they never got to do it. _One of them things_ , Arthur had defended, and Bill had gotten grumpy, shouting about how Arthur always got away with trouble, but _Bill_ was always called a fool and an idiot when he got into trouble. _Because when you get in trouble it’s literally because you were bein’ a fool and an idiot,_ are the words Arthur wanted to say. But he rode out to the bank, anyway, along with Lenny and Karen. As they’d left, Strauss had bothered him again with the Downes debt and Arthur’s stomach had sunk.

He remembered approaching the frail man in his small ranch, weeks ago now. Remembered how close he had nearly come to beating the poor man’s face in, how the frustration and anger at having to do this specific job had been biting Arthur’s heels for weeks. He also remembered sparing the penniless Mr. Downes, how he’d walked away with a growl and a promise to come back. There’d been a quiet voice somewhere in his head, an honorable and deep whisper that had said violence wasn’t necessary. That this man, Thomas Downes, didn’t deserve it. So, Arthur had walked away.

The robbery very nearly went well, until they inevitably got caught and had to shoot their way out. Thankfully, they’d all made it out in one piece and Arthur had split off to go deal with the money lending issue he’d been tasked with.

Now he just had to deal with this bit of unsavory business. Robbing banks didn’t seem so bad in comparison. The ride to Downes ranch was quiet, heavy clouds cast shadows over the land. Arthur can’t help but feel a chill even though the sun was still overhead and the adrenaline from the robbery and the following escape still beat in his veins.

Mrs. Downes and her son were outside of their modest farmhouse, packing up crates and bags onto a small wagon. She spotted him as he approached and he saw the heavy lines on her face, in the stoop of her shoulders, and her furrowed brow as he dismounted and walked over.

“My husband’s not even cold in the ground, and you’ve come back here,” she says with a sad type of bitterness in her voice. “I nearly paid off what was owed,” she adds as she waves her son into the house.

Arthur looks at the ground for a second, and a memory of Thomas Downes cowering in the dirt beneath him, body wracking in horrible, painful, coughs, floats to the front of his mind.

“I’m real sorry for your loss, ma’am,” he says finally looking up, “but your husband knew the rules when he took that money. He had a choice. Ain’t my fault about the way to world is.”

“He didn’t have a choice. He was _good_ , and he did good, there wasn’t no choice in that” she takes a bag from her son as he comes out of the house again, keeping his eyes low and his head drooped. If Arthur was a better man, he’d pity the poor family. Driven out of their homes, in debt, and with the man of the house buried six feet under. Her words echoed in his head and Arthur remembered seeing Thomas Downes, asking folks in Valentine for _charity_ for some orphanage while he himself had to borrow money to feed his family. Arthur had found it strange that a penniless man would be asking for money to give to others just out of the goodness of his heart- but he supposes that he just had never learned to view the world in that way. Once upon a time, Dutch had preached charity, had played the role of Robin Hood and taken from the rich to give to the poor- but times had changed since then. Now they were all just trying to survive, same as everyone else. Arthur had learned that when all was said and done, he had to protect himself and his family _first._

Same as Thomas Downes, who yet still found it in him to ‘ _do good.’_

“And you and your _business_ partner good as killed him yourself, and don’t kid yourself… you had a choice,” she continues, staring him down for a brief second before taking another box her son had brought to her and adding it to their little wagon.

“You speak as if killin’ was something I cared about,” Arthur scowls, and his shoulders tense up from the inner turmoil in his head. He hated doing this. Hated Strauss’ stupid money lending jobs. At the back of his mind, he made told himself that this was it. This was the last damned debt he’d collect.

“You ever wonder about eternity?” she asks, busying herself with the packing. “You should.”

“I hope it’s hot and terrible, Mrs. Downes, otherwise I’ll feel I’ve been sold a false bill of goods,” the dark humor in his voice sounds wrong in the situation, but Arthur just wanted to leave. Wanted to ride away and never think of this again. “Now please, the money.”

She huffs as she stomps towards the inside of her house and her son lingers on the porch, glaring at Arthur.

He could say something here, Arthur thinks. Intimidate the young man giving him a dirty look that would usually make Arthur slip into the role of dishonorable outlaw that he wore so well. But instead he turns away, scratching at his jaw and letting the moment pass. Vengeance was an idiot’s game, after all. Mrs. Downes returns with a bundle of cash that she shoves at Arthur perhaps a bit more harshly than necessary. He lets that slide too, mutters a _thank you_ and _good day_ and stalks back over to Hercules with purposeful strides.

The clouds continue to grow heavier and darker above him as he canters away, and Arthur feels himself brewing alongside the surely soon to be stormy weather. Thoughts of Mr. Downes’ unfortunate demise bounce around in his head and Arthur wonders what would’ve happened if he’d allowed himself to beat his frustrations on the man all that time ago. Surely it would have exacerbated the man’s death, first of all. A cold, intrusive thought pops up and Arthur wonders how… _contagious_ Downes might have been. He’d seen that he was unwell when he approached and first kicked the man down, remembered those horrible wet coughs that had left bloody splatters on the soil beneath. If Arthur had beaten him bloody, been covered in said blood, would a sickness be brewing in Arthur’s own lungs now? Would he have unknowingly sentenced himself into an early grave?

Hercules snorts beneath him, sensing Arthur’s sudden unease, and he takes pause, turning his face to the darkening sky and taking a deep, clearing breath, smelling the rain just before he felt a few sudden drops land on his cheeks. He looks back down, sees one of Hercules’ ears pointed back at him even as he dutifully continues on the road, and Arthur reaches down to give the stallion a comforting pat with a murmured _‘it’s alright, boy.’_

The rain starts to bear down on them and Arthur lets the sound drown out the noise of his thoughts. He focuses on the road, on Hercules’ rhythm beneath him, the rain seeping through his clothes and dripping off the rim of his hat, on the distant lake ahead of him.

By the time he crosses into Lemoyne, he’d ridden out of the storm and was left with heavy clothes that were chilled by the breeze as he rode and yet, he reveled in it. Something about the slightest bite of the wind on damp skin reminded him of something simple and primal- that he was _alive._

He takes his time untacking and brushing the dampness out of Hercules’ coat once he’s back in camp. He knows he should go in and deposit the debt and tell Strauss and Dutch that he was done with collecting, but he lingers with the horses instead. Kieran is there, as usual, brushing down his own horse- Branwen, Arthur recalls, who’d found Kieran even after they’d taken him prisoner way back in Colter. He looks at Hercules as the stallion noses Arthur’s pockets and lets himself relax a touch, leaning forwards into his neck and inhaling the comforting smell of _his_ horse. He felt a familiar sort of warmth and love that had been lost with Boadicea but was slowly coming back to him.

Arthur pulls out a wild carrot- which he found in abundance on his rides out and therefore always kept some in his satchel- and feeds it to Hercules who consumes the entire thing in one bite and licks at Arthur’s empty palm when it’s gone. Arthur smiles, gives the stallion one last pat, and turns him loose to the herd.

He observes the camp as he approaches, once again losing himself in his thoughts. The tension that had been building when they’d left Horseshoe Overlook seemed to have lessened in the past few weeks as people finally got back on their feet and enjoyed the beautiful spot they’d set up camp in. Sure, it was hot, and a little muggy, and the locals were all sorts of unlikeable, but it wasn’t bad. Arthur, for one, was in a much better place than he had been a few weeks ago. Now, with the decision to put the whole debt collecting thing behind him, felt a lightness he hadn’t felt in an age. He spotted Charles- thankfully not chopping wood or doing anything extraneous even though he’d been cleared for duty again- and his heart felt warm again. Another good thing to have come out of the last few weeks, right besides Hercules and having Sean back in camp and the way Sadie seemed to be coming into her own at last.

He spots Dutch outside his tent and Arthur thinks, for a brief moment, maybe they’d get out of this after all. Maybe Dutch’s plans will finally work out and he’ll lead them all to the safety he’d been promising.

But Arthur’s not _that_ big of a fool. They are still in the thick of it, enemies on all sides and closing in.

“Arthur!” Dutch looks up and waves at him as he approaches, “good job with that robbery, son. Real good take too, we’re finally getting somewhere! And with the way we’ve been playing the fools in this town, we’ll be rolling in gold before we know it.” He pats Arthur’s shoulder, a gesture that once comforted Arthur but now only makes him feel like a dog getting pet after playing fetch. 

“Sure,” Arthur drawls, “you seen Strauss?”

“He’s around. He sent you to get that debt near Valentine while you were there, didn’t he?”

“I got it,” Arthur nods, “just wanted to tell him I ain’t going to be doing his dirty work for him no more. I’m tired of it.” He braces himself as he says it, knowing Dutch may not be too happy with this decision. Dutch takes a step back and regards him with analytical eyes.

“We all have our parts to play, Arthur,” he says carefully, his voice as commanding as ever, “I know it ain’t pretty work but-“

“I’m tired of it, Dutch,” Arthur sighs, and he hopes that Dutch can understand the depth in his voice as he speaks, “have Micah go out or somethin’, I’m done.”

Dutch doesn’t reply at first, he just nods his head in a vague movement and then excuses Arthur- reminding him first to put the debt in the box and to get some rest. Arthur’s not sure how he felt about this particular conversation, feels like he’d seen Dutch literally take a step back from him and the distance between the two of them had grown in more ways than one.

The pit in his stomach, now as familiar as the hat on his head, roils uneasily.

With the money in the box, Arthur goes about pouring himself a bowl of stew as the sun casts lovely colors on the lake. He sees a few of the men gathered around the fire at the center of camp- John is sitting on a log nursing a bottle of beer alongside Hosea. Uncle sits on a log opposite, talking to Charles who’s sat on the ground in front of the burning logs with hands outstretched to absorb the warmth.

“C’mon Charles, you gotta have _something_ to share,” Uncle is saying with an animated wave of his hands. Arthur had seen the old man try to get some words out of Charles a few times, always to no avail except for short, one-word answers. It makes Arthur smirk lightly, knowing that Charles does actually seem to talk to him the most out of anyone. His feet carry him towards the fire before his mind decided that’s where he was going.

Charles briefly looks at Arthur with a slight nod in greeting, which Arthur returns as he sits on an empty space nearby. He digs into his stew as Charles looks back into the fire, seemingly pondering Uncle’s request.

“I… I’m not much of a storyteller so, uh, forgive me. But I really… I don’t have much to say,” he says with a quick glance around the circle sat in front of the fire. Uncle is looking at him with eager eyes, and Arthur almost chuckles, but Charles continues speaking.

“Life’s always confused me, I-“ he looks down and sees Charles staring back at the fire, “I don’t feel I understand it very much. Other human beings seem to understand why they were born but, for me…” His voice is deep, melting through the air and everyone at the fire is listening to him now. Arthur’s heart rumbles at hearing Charles open up, and he looks back down at his stew to keep himself from starting at his fire-lit silhouette. “It seems like I was born to hurt and suffer myself. That doesn’t seem like a really good reason, uh,” he chuckles, a bit nervous at all the attention suddenly on him, and Arthur looks back with soft eyes and a new understanding for his friend. “I wish there was another way. But, here in this land, uh, I feel very stuck.” There’s a heaviness in his words as he looks down, face cast in shadows and firelight. “But uhm, I’m sorry to complain,” he says, looking back up at his audience briefly before looking away again with another dry chuckle that doesn’t hold any warmth in it, “It’s just… it’s just so…”

“Listen Charles. You’re about the best man I know,” Arthur says with so much conviction and his voice is so harsh after Charles’ soft tone that it startles him into looking up and their eyes lock. There’s a murmur of agreement from John and Hosea’s side of the fire and Uncle nods as well before saying something about how he finally got Charles to warm up to him and then he quickly starts to dive into some story about this or that but Arthur’s still looking at Charles, who clears his throat and finally looks away with a shy, possible hint of a smile.

He stays and listens to Uncle’s idle chatter for a while longer. At some point, Charles excuses himself and Arthur’s left to try not to think about how much the other man’s presence comforts him. Across the flames, John meets his eyes and tips his head briefly. Arthur couldn’t help but feel their relationship was slowly, but surely, repairing itself. Healing over time, much like the scars that now decorated John’s face. With a nod back towards John, Arthur stands and excuses himself.

The night has settled over Clemens Point and Arthur’s whole day catches up as he drags himself to his cot, asleep nearly the instant his boots slide off his feet and his head meets the pillow.

The next morning when he wakes, ready to go about the routine he’d set himself on for the past week. Kieran is already tending to the horses as dawn breaks, but there is something new this morning.

Charles is back at it, heaving two haybales over to the horses that graze on the rise past Arthur’s wagon. Arthur yawns, stretches, and moves to catch up to the man, who hears his approach but continues forward with the hay resolutely.

“Can’t be stealing my jobs forever, Arthur,” he says when Arthur takes one of the bales from him without a word. He doesn’t protest though, letting Arthur slip his fingers under the twine and falling into step beside him.

“Can certainly try, Charles,” Arthur replies, with a stifled yawn. They spread out the hay and spend the rest of the morning going about business as usual- stoking the fires, preparing the coffee, collecting the eggs. Normally things that only need one man, but neither one of them says anything as they evenly divide the chores between them.

“I was thinking of going out hunting soon, now I’m finally allowed to leave camp again,” Charles is saying as they sit near each other, breakfasts on the table. Early morning activity begins to bustle as the day begins. Arthur _hmms_ over his steaming cup of coffee, the smell of it bitter and familiar in his nose.

“Mm, what are we hunting this time?” Arthur asks. He hadn’t been invited, per se, but Charles wouldn’t be telling him about a hunting trip if he didn’t want Arthur to come along.

“Boar,” he takes a bite of the eggs on his plate, Arthur’s self-invitation gone unquestioned. At this point, it was a given. “Heard there’s a bunch out past the Braithwaite’s place.”

“Sounds good to me,” Arthur smiles briefly, a note of excitement bouncing around in his chest. It had been a while since they’d gone out hunting together- with everything that’d been going on. Arthur was about to ask when they were going to head out when he spots Micah sauntering over to Dutch’s tent, sitting down in a chair in front when he didn’t find the man he was looking for. The sight narrows Arthur’s eyes and pinch his eyebrows together. He didn’t like how much Micah had been in Dutch’s ear of late- like a parasitic fungus growing on a tree. Charles sees the shift in Arthur’s expression, and he follows his gaze towards where Micah is now polishing one of his guns.

“Wonder what he’s up to now,” Charles grunts, though by the tone of his voice he couldn’t actually care less. Unease settles into Arthur’s gut once more and he quickly gulps down his coffee.

“Nothin’ good,” Arthur sighs, heaving himself back on his feet, “better go find out. I’ll talk to ya later,” he tips his hat and steels himself as he walks away towards Dutch’s tent. The sight of Micah sat in a chair normally occupied by Dutch unsettles Arthur more than he’d like to admit. Micah hadn’t even been in the gang that long and yet was so… at ease with their leader it made Arthur’s scowl grow even deeper. He’d been with Dutch for 20 years but felt like all that time meant nothing when Micah had moved in and nearly replaced him as Dutch’s right hand man in a fraction of the time. It was odd for Micah to be sat there too, seemingly waiting for Dutch to show up, meaning there was something important to discuss. And if Micah thought it important, it was probably going to end in bloodshed and pain, not as though Dutch would care much for that.

“Micah,” Arthur greets and tries not to bare his teeth in defense when icy blue eyes look up at him from beneath the rim of his white hat. The man straightens up, a nasty smirk curling his lips as he regards Arthur and he’s sure now that Micah is planning something.

“Blessed are the peacemakers,” he starts, and a tense shiver runs down Arthur’s spine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally i was gonna make this chapter during the whole blessed are the peacemakers ordeal but i felt like it needed a buffer so... that's this chapter...


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "blessed are the peacemakers" mission and the aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya'll, this chapter got away from me. kinda considered splitting it into two, but instead i'm gonna dump 10k words on you.  
> good luck and thanks for reading!
> 
> CW: some gross stuff about injuries

A glint of eyes, staring impossibly though a long-scoped rifle, a flinch backwards with the realization that something is _wrong_ , quickly followed by the shuffle of footsteps behind him and a grunt as something collides against his temple and then he’s falling, darkness embracing him as he loses his grasp on consciousness.

* * *

It comes in waves, after. A thumping pain at the side of his head, the sting of ropes digging into sensitive skin. The colors aren’t quite right, the shapes not quite defined. Arthur thinks he’s on the back of a horse, maybe, but it’s not his horse and he’s not in the saddle. He can’t make anything out, and black envelops his world once more.

* * *

Grass scratches his face when he blinks his eyes open again. The light of the sky isn’t what he remembered. Are those trees? There weren’t no trees in the Heartlands. There are voices above him and he turns his weary head up to three dark, looming figures. They’re laughing at something, at him?

“You ain’t dead yet, is ya?” A voice, cold, cruel, laughing as it comes too close to him. Behind him, more harsh laughter.

“Not yet anyway!” There’s a kick and Arthur’s body curls in on itself, instinct becoming aware before his mind has fully caught up yet. His throat hurts as he shouts in pain, blacking out again as the hits keep coming.

* * *

There are definitely trees above him. He tries to look around, seeing those three figures a further way off this time. Their backs are turned to him and somehow, his brain is functional enough to tell his body to move. Muscle memory moves his legs to the side, and he manages to push himself up, jaw clenched as pain registers in his joints, on his skin, in his head. There are trees ahead of him, he just has to move. Just has to get away.

“He’s escaping! Shoot him!” a warning shout behind him and the scuffle of men jumping up, reaching towards guns. Arthur’s heartbeat is painfully loud in his ears and he fan feel the stickiness of the blood on the side of his face. Instinct keeps his legs moving, his mind is a mantra of _get away get away get away._

There’s silence behind him- did he really just get away so easily? He’s up, he’s running, he’s-

A shot rings through the air.

He’s falling, a cry of pain escaping his lips as he feels the sharp slice of a bullet as it cuts through his thigh.

The ground greets him harshly as he collapses and rolls over with a painful groan. Blood pours from his wound and he feels the shock of it ripple throughout every nerve-ending down his entire body. He doesn’t feel pain yet, and he knows that it’s the adrenaline-powered survival tactic of his body, but he looks down to see a hole straight through the outer side of his right thigh. Luckly, not near any arteries, but bleeding freely, nonetheless.

“Did I kill ya?” The voice of his shooter nears him, and Arthur sees those three dark figures tower over him again.

“Ahh, not yet,” he groans, stubbornly clinging to consciousness. He tries to imagine what he’d do if he weren’t injured or bound, if he had uses of his own hands. These men would not stand a chance against Arthur’s will to survive.

“No… not yet, but I will,” the man above him points and shoots and Arthur loses his grip on wakefulness when his left shoulder _explodes._

* * *

There’s a sound of rushing water. Is it the blood in his ears?

No.

He blinks, sees clear rushing water. The shadow of a horse dances among the river stones. His eyes fall shut once more, head lulled by the sway of a horse’s meandering gait and the gentle whispers of the river below.

* * *

His head feels heavy. Eyes fall open, there’s frayed edges of a hood that had been covering his face in his peripheral vision- sliced open by someone. He blinks again and tries to take in the surroundings. The room he’s in is swaying and everything is tinted a disturbing shade of red and nothing makes sense.

There’s a light, traveling the wrong way towards him.

Oh, wait.

He’s upside down. A turn of his head reveals a bleak cellar, lit up by the lamp held by new presence in front of him.

“Arthur Morgan,” the features of a man barely come into focus in front of him- pallid, wrinkled and scarred skin, hair greyed with age and with stress, eyes as cold as Lake Isabella in the depths of winter. Colm O’Driscoll sneers, and Arthur hates being so far below. When had they strung him up, left to hang like a butchered deer? “It’s nice to see you again,” Colm continues, languidly putting the lamp on a table and- was that a plate of food in his hand? Was now really the best time for his supper?

“Hello Colm,” Arthur manages to spit out, though his voice is jagged and broken and the more conscious he becomes, the more he realizes he’s in copious pain. His left shoulder pulses, and Arthur wonders if his entire heart can dissolve and leak out- dripping down his arm and onto the floor above him. Below him? His head feels more like a sack filled with liquid and he just wants to burst- to release the pressure building behind his eyes.

“How’s the wound?” The man above him hunches over, poking a spoon towards the gaping, bleeding, festering, hole in his shoulder.

“I hardly feel it,” Arthur barely manages to lift his good arm up to block Colm from poking it, earning himself a nasty chuckle.

“You will,” he uses the spoon to lift the hand that blocked his way, eyeing the gunshot with a sharp inhale through his teeth- though instead of sounding concerned it sounds _amused_ , “septic, ain’t nice.”

Septic indeed, Arthur had already smelled it. Putrid, raw, the smell stung his nostrils and made his heart stutter in nervousness. He had enough medical knowledge surrounding injuries like this to know that if he didn’t get treatment soon, he may find eternity before he was ready. Though, he supposes, is anyone ever ready to die?

Colm steps away, using the same spoon to lift a bite of food up from his plate and Arthur groans- in pain, in disgust, in fear? It was hard to tell. He was saying something, Arthur realized, he heard Dutch’s name on Colm’s disdainful lips.

“Could come ride with me and make some real money,” His voice is unnervingly soft, as if it were a real offer.

“It ain’t about the money, Colm,” he grits, turning his head to keep eyes on the man as gravity spins him facing away the other way. Can’t turn your back on a man like Colm O’Driscoll, the worst of them all.

“Oh no,” venom leaks into Colm’s voice, “it’s Dutch’s famous _charisma.”_

Arthur barely has time to see the kick coming, foot colliding harshly on his ribs and the pain ripples like a stone thrown into water. Every other injury on his body echoes back the sharp ache. Arthur’s head is spinning again- or maybe his entire body- or maybe it’s the room.

“You killed a bunch of my boys, at Six Point Cabin” Colm is speaking again, swinging in front of Arthur with a disgusted, merciless frown. No, Colm isn’t the one swinging, Arthur is- knocked into motion by Colm’s kick. The shackles at Arthur’s ankles dig into his skin and he can feel a drip of blood traveling down- or up?- his leg.

“I ain’t got no clue what you talking about,” there’s that stubbornness again, Arthur’s jaw clenches as he tries to push down the pain long enough to survive Colm, to figure out a way out of this. He tries to keep Colm talking, even as he says things that set off all sorts of alarm bells in Arthur’s head. It’s not until Colm reveals his plan, the reason Arthur was hanging upside down in this miserable cellar, that Arthur’s blood freezes.

“But see, we lure an angry Dutch in to rescue ya…” He’s crouched in front of Arthur again, trailing a derogatory finger down the buttons of Arthur’s union suit- when had they _stripped_ him?- and it stings Arthur’s skin like ice on warm skin, “grab all of ya and hand ya in… then _disappear_.”

“So you only met with him to grab me?” Anxiety strikes like a lightning bolt down Arthur’s spine. He was the bait- no better than a piece of cheese on a mousetrap.

“Of course,” Colm sniggers, as if Arthur’s a fool for only just coming to the realization. Maybe he’s right. Arthur is a fool. “Oh, he’s gonna be so mad. He gonna come raging over here… and a whole lot of ya… and the law will be waiting for him.”

Faces start to flash in Arthur’s mind. Dutch, Hosea, John, his family, everyone he held dear.

Charles.

It felt like Arthur’s heart had been bound in tight rope, squeezing until everything was a red haze.

“Oh Arthur,” Colm sighed, and his voice was too satisfied, too mocking, as he took out his gun and observed its weight in his hand, “Arthur, I missed ya.” 

He turns the revolver over and swings the handle into Arthur’s ribs with the force of a man who’d never learned mercy. Arthur’s body, once more starting to flood in survival instinct and adrenaline, braces to try and absorb the impact, but one of Colm’s hits lands on a weak spot and Arthur cries out, feeling the pressure and the bruising of what is surely a cracked rib. His lungs wheeze as he coughs in pain, tasting blood on his tongue.

Internal bleeding too then, just another thing to add to the list of things that will probably kill Arthur by the day’s end.

Or is it night?

He didn’t know how much time had passed.

Colm left, eventually, and Arthur’s not sure if he had passed out in the blackness or it was just the natural darkness of the cellar.

When the pain subsided- or when his body finally adjusted to it- he finally looked around.

He had to escape. He would die before anything happened to his gang.

Arthur just hoped Dutch wasn’t already on his way.

He looked towards the only source of light in the room, a small candle giving off a lazy, dim orange glow. A piece of metal glinted and Arthur might’ve laughed if his body didn’t feel like it was falling apart at the seams- there’s a small blade, probably a letter opener or a nail file. Doesn’t matter, it’ll do.

He pushes everything aside and instinct takes over again. He manages to swing and grab the file, even as he feels the skin of his ankles rip open and bleed in protest. A heave to fold himself upwards, jam the file into the shackles, and he's falling with a wet _thud_ and wheezing on the floor, feeling the stickiness of the puddle of his own blood seep into his ruined union suit.

Pain is everything, and his vision is blurred and fuzzy and he’s so tired, but he pushes. His head spins into what feels like an entire dimension entirely as he rights himself, and it takes a few breaths to regain his vision and take in his surroundings. 

He takes another shaky breath as he sits on a rickety chair near the table he’d found the file on, detaches himself from reality as he heats the metal over the flame of the candle.

The bullet in his shoulder throbs as he mechanically moves to perform surgery on himself. It’s almost an out-of-body experience, when the pain reaches levels beyond the worst he’d known. The foreign metal pushes his skin and his flesh and new blood pours out, even as he finally digs out the bullet with a painful groan stifled through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw.

The fabric of his union suit is saturated with blood- old and new. Arthur takes a breath to try and ground himself. He hears footsteps approaching and it’s instinct again that gets him on his feet as an Irish-accented O’Driscoll comes down the steps, the injury in his leg twinges sharply in protest but he ignores it as he presses himself into the shadows near the wall. The newcomer barely registers the fact that there was nobody hanging where they were supposed to be when Arthur comes up behind him, crushing his neck and twisting with a surge of power that came from a very deep, primal place within Arthur.

There’s a _pop_ and the body goes limp, Arthur loots the corpse and finds a handful of throwing knives.

These will do.

Another form of detachment takes over Arthur’s movements as he climbs/limps out the cellar and into the cool night air.

He stops and listens, hears some of the men that had shot him and beaten him. The men who’d taken his weapons, his _clothes_ , who’d humiliated and degraded him.

Arthur nearly blacks out again as he stumbles into motion. Everything is wrong, vague forms tinted all sorts of red and purple and other sickly colors. He sees a man holding a lamp, and practiced movements bring Arthur to the unsuspecting O’Driscoll- arms wrapping around and slicing his throat with a knife before the man falls limp in Arthur’s grasp, who lets him fall gently to not make a sound.

His heartbeat is the only sound he can hear, even as the rest of the men met similar, bloody ends, and Arthur is kneeling over the last of them outside the shed with blood covering every inch of him. His own, his enemy’s, he can’t tell anymore.

A vague memory of his arrival, someone pointing to a woodshed with a command to _put his weapons over there_ and there they are indeed. Arthur buckles the belt onto his hips and the weight of it clears his head just enough. The red and purple and black blurs of his surrounding start to clear up and he can see horses.

 _His_ horse.

Hercules is tied to a post, looking at him with pointed ears and muscles tensed. He tugs his reins free of the post with a powerful lurch and meets Arthur as he stumbles forward.

Muscle memory brings Arthur onto the saddle, and Hercules is off. Arthur tries to steer, but he doesn’t know where they are. Everything is dark.

Somewhere behind him he hears a pair of riders shouting something and looks back to see approaching lights. With a jolt he guides Hercules off to the side, disappearing into some trees and down a small ravine. The riders pass above him and he sighs, dropping his head as he lets Hercules find his way forward. 

He hears the river.

They’d crossed a river earlier, hadn’t they?

Maybe it was the still of the night, the dark-moonless sky- Arthur felt himself slipping back into black as hooves tread softly on the sandy shores of the river.

“Come on boy… get me home…” he manages to mutter and Hercules snorts as he carries them onwards.

Exhaustion slams into him the instant the adrenaline begins to ebb away and Arthur struggles to remain upright. He feels the weight of his left arm, limp and useless at his side. His leg too, aching on every level. Breathing itself hurts.

Now he’s just so, so tired.

There are splashes as Hercules begins to wade into the river and Arthur fights to keep his eyes open. He looks ahead- barely distinguishes anything apart.

Is that a tree? No, it’s moving.

A bear? No, not quite.

He panics, realizing it’s a rider on a horse. Hands tighten on the reins and his shoulders turn, trying to spin Hercules away.

But instead the stallion whinnies softly.

He’s losing this fight, Arthur thinks, as his body keeps turning and Hercules breaks into a pace just slightly too fast for Arthur to hold on in this weakened state.

Gravity is too strong, and he falls over, into shallow running water, landing on his back with his face just barely above the surface. The water feels cool on his skin, washes away a layer of blood and Arthur almost finds it soothing. There’s the sound of a horse approaching, a splash as the rider dismounts. A voice too.

Arthur closes his eyes. Hopefully they kill him, this time. Damn O’Driscolls. His heart thumps painfully in his chest as he realizes Dutch will probably lead his entire family, and Charles, into a trap, and Arthur was just too weak to get away and warn him.

Though he got away, at least. Maybe the river will take him, and that’ll be that.

Footsteps above him, a voice is shouting his name. Arthur is so close to letting the darkness in his vision take him, but then there’s a blink as familiarity seeps into his subconsciousness.

It’s familiar, that voice.

Deep and smooth, like honey.

“Arthur- don’t be dead, you fool, please-“ strong hands are lifting him out of the water- warm hands, gripping his shoulder and pushing hair out of his face.

With a last bit of strength, Arthur opens his eyes. He sees the stars first, and then refocuses to the figure in front of him. Inky black hair, wide shoulders, concerned and gentle eyes.

“I- it wassa trap,” he wheezes, and then he’s brought forwards and he can smell all sorts of familiar things on the man’s clothes- horse, wood, smoke. Comforting things. Reminds him of home.

“It’s ok. I got you, you’re safe. I’ll get you home,” Charles holds him close and Arthur finally lets himself go under, this time feeling relief as his eyes close instead of fear and regret.

* * *

“I’ll talk to ya later,” and he was walking away, shoulders tensing up more with each step he took. Charles watched him, observed his interaction with Micah, bristled when the O’Driscoll's had been brought up. He got up off the table and headed towards his bedroll, but still close enough to overhear the conversation. Pearson is saying something about a parlay- Colm O’Driscoll wanting peace. Charles didn’t know much about the whole rivalry, and if he was honest, he couldn’t bring himself to care much, even on behalf of Dutch. He remembered asking Arthur about it once or twice but the reason just didn’t seem to justify the violence between the two gangs.

He’s sipping his coffee, pointed away from where the men have moved to the table he and Arthur had been at previously. Hosea had pointed out the obvious, that a parlay with the O’Driscoll’s is a trap and Charles can’t help but agree. Something about it didn’t sit right. Finally, Dutch reveals the origin of it all- he’d killed Colm’s brother. And Colm, in retribution, killed a woman Dutch held dear.

Ah, love, the greatest motivator for hate. And revenge. And war.

There’d been a pause, Charles glanced over briefly and saw the men looking to Dutch for a decision. Micah leaned forwards, saying something to Dutch, and Charles could see the resolution in Dutch’s stance as he straightened up and announced his plan. Micah smirked as he followed Dutch at the heel towards the horses. Arthur lagged behind by just a few steps and met his eyes briefly as he passed.

Guess they’ll have to post-pone hunting, then. Charles tries not to feel annoyed, had been looking forward to getting out of camp.

Had been looking forward to spending time with Arthur.

Now, Charles was not really a people person. He’d been in the gang more than half a year now, but still kept largely to himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them, though he definitely found some personalities to be… a bit much, for him. He’d gotten along pretty well with some of the men so far. John had been tolerable. Uncle had seemingly made it his own personal mission to befriend Charles, who found the whole ordeal simply tiring. Tilly had a similar mission, but in a much friendlier and more considerate way. She’d challenged him to dominoes once, and Charles had been bored enough that day that he’d accepted. Though she talked a bit more than he would’ve liked, she’d mostly tried to talk about the things she’d think Charles would have something to say on. An admirable quality, if Charles could name one. She was a damn good dominoes player, too, and Charles never stood a chance.

Some in the gang, however, Charles could probably do without. Bill was big, loud, brutish and mean. Charles tried to avoid him, generally speaking, on account of the dirty and distrustful looks thrown his way by the bear-ish man. Micah Bell was on a whole different level of men Charles could do without. He was like a snake, cunning, cold-blooded and cruel. He knew the role he had to play to keep in Dutch’s favor and he’d played that role like a fiddle and Dutch had eaten up the attention. Charles could see how stressed Arthur became the instant Micah was brought up in conversation or passed by him in camp. Strauss too, had etched a deep scowl into Arthur’s face and Charles could only imagine how unpleasant it must be. He knew debt collecting may be the only thing they do that’s technically legal, but Arthur would often come back from collections with a cloud hanging over him and a detached look in his eyes and it made Charles frown.

Did no good to Arthur, brewing in darkness like that.

Arthur Morgan had easily been the best thing Charles could think of to come out of joining this gang. He’d never met any other person that he had felt so close to in such a short period of time.

Arthur was a hardened man, sure, but the hidden part of Arthur was the one that Charles had found himself fascinated with. He’d seen the man in hand-to-hand combat, seen the focus that stilled his entire body and the precise aim of his shots in a gunfight, had seen the dark scowl and the shadow that seems to grow when he growls threats towards his enemies-or victims, for that matter. He knew there was a turmoil within Arthur, stuck between his role as Dutch’s _son_ \- outlaw for life, forever on the run, blood on his hands and a trail of bodies behind him- and who Arthur was deep down- a man who loved his horse more than people, who went out of his way to make sure everything had what they needed before he considered his own needs, who was loyal to his family to a fault, who was braver than anyone Charles had known. Arthur was a man that had listened to Charles that day out when they’d gone bison-hunting, who had asked him questions about the respectful thing to do after downing one of the massive animals, had taken a moment of silence. That same man who’d hardened and backed Charles up immediately when they’d found the poachers. Even killing a man, no questions asked.

Charles thinks back to Arthur’s comforting pat on his shoulder, how the touch had settled Charles far more than he’d expected it to, how that had taken him by surprise.

Arthur took Charles by surprise more times than he could count, by now. It had made him feel like a fool, on occasion. 

Another memory of a starlit sky and the soft crackle of a campfire near Moonstone Pond. Earlier that night, Arthur had asked him what his favorite color was, and it was the easiest thing in the world to answer. Blue, the color of the sky on a clear day. The color he’d find in Arthur’s eyes every time he was lucky enough to see them. The man certainly spent most conversations hiding just slightly under the brim of his hat, and Charles wondered how long he’d been trying to hide the emotions written in his eyes.

They’d laid side-by-side on the grass and Charles had taken a risk, had laid down closer than he knew was necessary. He’d been surprised when Arthur didn’t move back, and his heart had felt all sorts of warmth that he hadn’t felt since he was young.

Their eyes had met that night and Charles swears that Arthur’s eyes just reflect the color above him- for that night they were a deep, dark blue that went on as infinite as the space above them. The pale moon seemed to make him glow in its light and the sight had taken Charles’ breath away.

It was a good thing Charles knew a thing or two about being stealthy and inconspicuous, knew how to school his features into his regular calm, unnerved demeanor.

But he’d be damned if he didn’t want to smile like a fool every time Arthur was around.

Charles didn’t like talking to people, generally, but he liked talking to Arthur. Liked listening to his unique drawl, the way he said 'boy' and it sounded like ' _boah'._ He felt a kindred connection to him and, somehow, he knew that it was mutual at least on some level.

Charles was nothing if not observant, and he wasn’t as big a fool as people thought him to be on account of his quietness. He remembered Arthur’s defensiveness when they’d scouted for a new camp after the mess in Valentine, how he’s angrily said “ _maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do”_ and how the words had stung Charles, who probably didn’t know Arthur as well as he thought but he certainly knew him _well enough_ to see the man's true nature hiding behind his cruel scowl. 

But no matter how much more he learned about the man, Arthur kept surprising him. A grin while they raced their horses, the ridiculous giggle that had bubbled from his chest after he’d fallen off, the blush in his cheeks as Charles cleaned the resulting scrape. Charles smirks even now, recalling the memory.

And then that day in the cornfields, when Charles had felt a panic he hadn’t felt in a long time. The sight of Arthur, barely breathing, eyes rolling back and lips turning blue. His heartbeat had been very loud in Charles’ ears that day, even after he’d thrown the knife and Arthur regained his breath. He’d come too close to death and Charles had felt such an overwhelming relief at his safety.

He sat with Arthur later that night, beers in hands and toes in the water of lake. Arthur had accepted his presence, even relaxed at the sound of Charles’ voice, claimed him to be his closest friend and Charles’ heart had felt tight in the space behind his ribs. Closest friend indeed.

Charles was starting to think it might run deeper than friendship, though.

He really was turning into a fool.

Charles absentmindedly reached to his side, brushing over the healing scab from the bullet graze. He remembers the heat of the fire, but more the heat of Arthur’s body as he pressed his hand against Charles’ bleeding side and ridden them to safety. He remembers his heart in his throat as Arthur had taken care of him, surprising him yet again with the knowledge of yarrow’s medicinal properties and the gentle way in which he’d bandaged him up.

Arthur was a stubborn man, too. Charles had been bemused, mostly, in a warm and fond way, when he found Arthur taking all the chores from him to make sure Charles rested. It had felt odd, because Charles liked to keep busy anyway. Chores were something he quite enjoyed.

But he enjoyed being taken care of for once, too. It wasn’t exactly something he’d been familiar with.

Now he’d finally healed, and he wanted to get back out, to ride on Taima and go hunting with Arthur and see what else he can find out about the man that surprises him. But Arthur was away with Dutch and Micah and Charles felt a slight twinge as he realized that those are the two biggest causes of stress and worry in the gang for him, and now he was out alone with them on a potentially dangerous mission without anyone just on _Arthur’s_ side.

Unease settled into Charles’ gut and he quickly got up to busy himself. He ended up running some more chores, spent some time with Taima before deciding to find some wild turkey in the nearby woods. Not the hunting trip he’d hoped for, but enough. She greeted him warmly as he approached and he smiled when he saw a few singular braids in her mane, surely done by Arthur’s hands one morning when he’d groomed her. He tacks up the mare with practiced and well known motions and finds comfort in the saddle as he rides out, breathing fresh air for the first time all week.

He’d managed to kill most of the day hunting turkey and looking for more plants and herbs to dry out and store along the way. By the time he got back, the sun was starting to fall lower in the sky. He looked around as he hitched Taima. Hercules wasn’t there and Charles only pouted on the inside.

He quickly frowned in full when he saw the Count and Baylock, grazing not far away.

Another glance, towards camp, and he saw Dutch at the mouth of his tent with Hosea, Micah, Pearson, and John.

Arthur wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

The unease that Charles had managed to distract himself from lurched back into awareness. He quickly untied the turkeys tied to Taima’s saddle and hastily made his way to the chuck wagon, laying them on the butcher’s table before cautiously approaching the men discussing something heatedly.

“I told you it was a _trap_ , Dutch.”

“He knew the risk, Hosea.”

“Are you even sure about this?”

Charles steps in and lightly taps John’s shoulder, furthest from the center. “What’s going on?” He asks, nodding towards the commotion in the middle.

“Arthur didn’t show at the meeting spot after the parlay with Colm,” John mutters harshly over his shoulder and Charles can see the concerned knit of his brow. A nervous tempo starts to beat in his chest.

“Did the O’Driscoll’s take him?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

Pearson has said something, and Dutch is glaring him down. Micah looks far too unconcerned just on the other side of Dutch and Charles feels a jolt of anger.

“Listen to me, I am just as concerned as you. Arthur is my _son,_ you know this Hosea,” he says, gesturing back towards Hosea who’s scowling at him with hands on his hips and rigid shoulders, “but we can’t jump to the worst conclusion right away.”

“For all we know, dear Mister Morgan saw that the meeting went wrong and bolted before he had a chance to be followed. Might just be taking his time throwing off a trail, just in case,” Micah drawls, though there’s very little sincerity in his words.

“Exactly,” Dutch is nodding. Hosea scoffs again.

“And what if they did take him, Dutch? What if they’re killing him right now and we’re sitting here on our asses doing nothing?”

“We gotta go look for him, Dutch!” John pipes up, taking a step forward.

“Enough!” Dutch’s voice booms, “we will not jump to conclusions. If Arthur is not back by tomorrow, we will arrange a search party. Until then, you stay _put,_ ” he jabs a finger at John who throws his hands up incredulously. Hosea huffs and stomps away, meeting Charles eyes and nodding his head as he walks by, signaling to follow. John trails behind and they walk to the other side of camp, up the rise past the medicine tent to the campfire posted there.

“I don’t feel right about this, boys,” Hosea mutters and John growls his concurrence.

“Arthur wouldn’t miss the meeting point,” John is saying, shaking his head with his chin in his hand, “I’m just not buying their story. I don’t think they even waited. I just… why would Dutch just leave?”

“Where was this meeting point?” Charles finally speaks up and Hosea and John lock their eyes on him.

“Near the oil derrick in the Heartlands,” Hosea responds. Charles glances up at the sky, maybe two or three hours of light left. Lucky it’s summer and the days are long. He nods at the men and strides away. “Charles!”

He stops and turns halfway, frowning determinately at them in case they try to stop him.

They don’t.

“Be careful. Bring him home,” Hosea says with a nod and Charles turns away, on Taima in record time and spurring her into a gallop as soon as they’ve cleared the trees that hide their camp. He didn’t care if Bill-standing guard- yelled something after him. He could tell Dutch that he’d disobeyed, Charles didn’t care. There was only one thing important to him right now.

He’d already nearly lost Arthur once, in those damn cornfields. He was not going to lose him before he got a _chance_ to save him first.

Taima, sensing his urgency, does not falter as she cuts through fields and up hills, snorting and sweating as her hooves cover distances faster than they’d ever had before. The light is dimming and there’s a pressure to find Arthur’s trail before he lost it. If he didn’t pick up a trail, at least a direction or a clue, before it got completely dark… he tried not to think about it.

The heartlands open up before him and he follows the road. Finally, his eyes dart down to look at the tracks in the dust. There are multiple sets of hoofprints, it’s almost impossible to tell them apart. Anxiety bites and claws at the back of Charles mind as he tries to find something that might give him a clue.

Finally, he sees something. Hoofprints coming towards the road from a bushwhacked trail leading up to a cliff that overlooked the oil derrick in the distance. He quickly canters up the hill, keeping eyes on the trail to see their origin. There appeared to be three- no, four? Distinct horse prints. He clears the crest of the hill and looks out. The land is set in deep shadows but he can see a clearing with an open view of the oil derrick and as Charles observes the dirt around, he sees the most promising clues he’s found so far. It looked like a body had been dragged from the edge of the cliff and when Charles looks around for another beat, his heart sinks.

There, caught on a wind-swept bush, Arthur’s worn hat. Dusty and weathered, familiar as blue eyes. Charles picks up the hat and is back on Taima in an instant, tucking it into a saddlebag as he races down the hill, back towards the road. This time, following a specific trail. It’s darkened enough now that he can barely make anything out, but it had been headed west the entire time he’d been tracking and along the way he saw remains of a camp that had spurred him on.

He didn’t miss the puddles of blood, which made it sickeningly easier to spot a trickle or two leading him closer and closer to the river.

Around Flatneck station, he halts. Riders are quickly approaching with raised lamps. He quietly steers Taima into a small cluster of trees and bushes and hopes that they’re not observant enough to see him in the dark.

“It’s a damn shame we have to be out patrolling. Everyone else got a chance to kick his ass but me,” one of the riders is saying as they pass and the other laughs gruffly.

“I’m sure you’ll get a chance, boy. Now come on, we gotta keep an eye out if anyone is coming for the poor bastard.”

Charles’ heart leaps in his chest, seeing the green bandanas tied at their throats as they pass by. He bristles, reaching for his shotgun. He should kill them both, but it sounded like they’d been riding _away_ from wherever they were keeping Arthur, and he was the priority here. Revenge could come later.

The fact that Hosea had been right to jump to the worst-case scenario stings bitterly as Charles recalls Dutch’s complete disregard. Arthur had been kidnapped and Dutch was doing nothing about it.

He rides down the road to the level of the river when he sees a shape of a horse and rider on the opposite shoreline. No lamp, though, strange. The night was dark, no moon to even light the way. Charles was simply lucky his night vision is as decent as it was- forged from years of nights alone in the woods when he was too afraid to start a fire lest it attract unwanted attention. He pauses just before the water, observing the figure for a moment longer with his heart beating loudly in his throat. He can barely make out the rider, slouched over on his horse as it wades into the river.

Taima is staring forward with the same attention as Charles and suddenly, she whinnies softly. He’s moving her forwards before he registers the whinny in response and now, he can see a light coat and a thick, dark mane. The hunched over figure sees his approach and turns away, losing his balance as Hercules trots forward to greet Taima and Charles stops breathing as he pushes her forward, heartbeat wild in his chest as he watches the man fall off his horse, lands on his back in the shallow streaming water. Doesn’t move.

“Arthur!” He shouts, jumping off Taima even as she’s still cantering through the river. He lands with a splash and rushes forward, slipping on some stones as he wades up to shallower water where Arthur has landed.

“Oh, Arthur, _shit.”_

He can barely see Arthur beneath all the blood on him, on his skin, his union suit- the realization that they’d even stripped him down to his underwear brings a bolt of nausea in Charles’ gut and fury begins to burn somewhere deep inside. He kneels beside Arthur, ignoring the cold water seeping into his boots and his pants. He scoops up the man, eyeing him down in the dim light of the stars. There’s a gaping black _mess_ on his left shoulder and with a light, barely-there, touch Charles realizes it’s a gunshot wound. He looks up at Arthur’s face and brings up a hand to brush damp hair off his forehead, revealing a blunt gash along his left temple. He’s barely breathing, and Charles tries not to panic, tries to even his breathing.

“Arthur- don’t be dead, you fool, _please,”_ he grips his hand on Arthur’s good shoulder, cupping the other one behind Arthur’s head.

Eyes blink open and look above him and Charles almost chokes at the sight of familiar blue. Arthur’s eyes are bloodshot as he looks and focuses in on Charles.

“I- it wassa trap,” he wheezes with a painful breath, and then Charles brings him forward in a hug, relief washing over him as he holds Arthur close. He smells of blood, and sweat, and something _worse_ that Charles recognizes as a septic wound and suddenly Charles understands something.

That decade long rivalry between Colm and Dutch, because they each took something loved by the other.

“It’s ok. I got you, you’re safe. I’ll get you home,” Charles holds him close and soothes the man in his arms as he goes limp, breath sounding maybe a fraction more relaxed than before, as he passes out from the pain. Charles heaves him up and manages to put him on Taima, who takes the heavy extra weight with barely more than a puff of air. 

A sudden memory, barely more than a week old, of Charles leaning back on Arthur while he bled from his side, and Arthur’s warm arms wrapped around his middle.

Now, the roles are reversed as Charles slides up behind Arthur, holding him tight as he softly calls Hercules to follow and turns back across the river.

With O’Driscoll’s patrolling the roads, he decides to stick to the shoreline of the river as it feeds into Flat Iron Lake. Taima dutifully gallops along, carrying them as fast as she can. She’s a good horse, strong and fast and Charles’ most loyal companion and he tries to express his thanks towards her with a soft sound and a spur to keep her moving forward with urgency. Arthur is still limp beside him, but he’s still breathing, and that’s all Charles focuses on as the lake expands on and on in the impossibly dark sky. The water is still on this night and it seems like they’re running right alongside the starts themselves. He glances up at the road running parallel to the beach, deeming it far enough from where he’d last seen the O’Driscoll’s to get back on it. Taima will have better footing on solid ground, will cover more distance that way. Hercules keeps pace just beside them, keeping an ear pointed to where Arthur is wheezing.

They clatter across a wooden bridge and camp is not far now; Charles tenses his jaw as he urges Taima for the last leg of this journey and though she tosses her head and snorts, she speeds up just a fraction.

There’s the familiar patch of trees just ahead and Charles nearly exhales in relief. Arthur stirs in his arms, coughing as he comes back into a vague awareness. Charles squeezes the arm wrapped around him comfortingly, trying to avoid the obvious injures. He canters into camp, barreling past the guard who’s shouting something at him that doesn’t matter at all.

He rides almost to the middle of tents and wagons, and the sound of him crashing through the woods has already attracted a few people forwards.

“It’s Arthur! He’s got Arthur!” Mary-Beth brings her hands to her face as shocked gasps ripple throughout the growing crowd. Dutch is striding towards them as Charles dismounts, reaching up to help Arthur who’s opened his eyes and was realizing where he was. John appears next to him and they ease Arthur off Taima, wincing when Arthur groans in pain at even the slightest movement, the lightest touch. Charles slides in on his left side, wrapping a strong arm around his waist as John takes the other side, basically dragging Arthur along towards his cot. The putrid smell of the wound on his shoulder makes Charles’ nose sting and his eyes water and his head spins with worry.

If they couldn’t fight the infection, they might lose Arthur anyway.

“Arthur?” Dutch is in front of them raising an arm towards Arthur but almost afraid to touch him.

“I- _ah-_ told you it was a setup, Dutch,” Arthur says but the words slur into one and he sounds pained as he exhales. Charles furrows his brows, tries to keep his mind from thinking too many things at once. The most important thing to focus on right now was helping Arthur, making sure he didn’t die.

“Oh my boy… my dear boy, what?”

“They got me,” a wheeze, “but I got away,” another gulp of air, “Charles-“

“That you did, son. Miss Grimshaw! We need help! Get him to his bed, come on,” Dutch steps back and lands a hand on Charles’ free shoulder, gently pushing him into moving forwards towards Arthur’s wagon as if that wasn’t already where Charles was trying to get to. He tries not to flinch at the contact, tries not to think about the fact that Dutch hadn’t even wanted anyone to go find Arthur.

If Charles hadn’t disobeyed, Arthur may have very well died.

“He was gonna set the law on us,” Arthur is muttering, though Charles can tell his grip on consciousness is fading as pain beings to pull him back under. Charles grits his teeth and keeps moving, John scowling on the other side as Pearson slides up near them and tries to say something sounding like an apology, of all things.

“You’re safe now, son” Dutch is saying as they approach Arthur’s cot and Charles feels his rasping chuckle.

“That’s pretty, Dutch, that’s real pretty,” and there’s a bitterness in his words as his eyes fall shut once more. John moves away when there’s not enough room for the both of them to maneuver Arthur to his bed and Charles is left to bear the brunt of his weight.

He sets Arthur down gently, bringing a hand to support the back of his head as he goes, flinching slightly when Arthur winches in pain. John has a hand on Charles’ shoulder, pulling him backwards although every part of him wants to stay at Arthur’s side. He lets himself be pulled back as Miss Grimshaw slides in with clean cloths and a bucket of water. She tuts as she peels back the fabric of Arthur’s bloodied union suit and in the light of the lamps around him, Charles can finally see the extent of the damage.

A bloody crater in Arthur’s shoulder, edges tinted black with sepsis and skin stained from the bleeding and the pus. He sees the gash on Arthur’s head more clearly, a jagged line starting at the edge of his eyebrow and disappearing into his hairline. His eyes trail down, seeing a blood-soaked tear on Arthur’s thigh where it looked like a bullet had grazed him. Charles’ own side twinges at the sight. There’s a crowd around Arthur’s wagon and Hosea finally waves them all away, telling them that it ain’t a show and people should go off to bed anyway. Not that anyone will be doing much sleeping tonight.

He pauses when his eyes reach Charles and there’s just the briefest of nods, a quickly mouthed _thank you_ and Charles returns the motion. He takes a deep calming breath and tries to turn away, but finds his feet stuck. Sadie is nearby too, frowning and cursing under her breath. Charles knew her feelings on the O’Driscoll's, and he can’t imagine her fury at the situation. Charles had noticed how she and Arthur had been chatting more often, as well. Especially after she’d gone into Rhodes and returned with a fresh pair of trousers and a lighter set of shoulders. She met his eyes briefly and nodded towards the shoreline as she walked away. Without anything else to do, he followed.

“Do you know what happened?” She asks him when they reach a safe distance from the bustle of camp. He shakes his head, lump in his throat as he tries to find his words.

“Picked up a trail from the Heartlands, followed it until I found him. We kinda bumped into each other, actually,” he explains.

“Dutch was real angry when he noticed you left,” she murmurs, arms crossed, “yelled at John and Hosea, too.”

“Didn’t think he’d notice,” Charles states, his typical sarcasm leaking through his words. Sadie smirks briefly.

“It was good of you to go, Charles,” she says, frown back in place, “I hate to think of what might’ve happened.”

He hums heavily in response. Arthur did manage to escape on his own, but Charles wasn’t sure he would’ve made it back to camp if he hadn’t been there. He’d passed out in that river. If Charles hadn’t come along, an O’Driscoll probably would’ve.

“Those monsters,” she growls, and Charles sees her frown deeply. Her eyes were still more sad than angry, still grieving the loss of her previous life and her husband. He hums in agreement, gazing out at the calm waters of the lake. 

Stars twinkle and shine in the reflection and Charles looks upwards. He scans the sky and finds that constellation Arthur had pointed out, seemingly ages ago. His heart still beats heavily in his chest and he has to close his eyes and take a breath to calm himself.

Sadie is quiet next to him, following his gaze upwards. He thinks he can understand what Arthur sees in her now. She had the wisdom only forged from knowing true grief and pain, and now she’d molded herself into a new, stronger person than before. She may very well be the strongest of them all, in some ways. Charles decides he doesn’t mind her company either.

He excuses himself before long, walking back through camp with a wary look towards Arthur’s wagon. Miss Grimshaw was still there, Dutch and Hosea hovering nearby. Though it took a massive amount of effort, he kept moving past the wagon even though all he wanted to do was relieve Miss Grimshaw and patch Arthur up himself, but it just… wasn’t his place to do so.

He walked towards the horses instead, eyes peeled for Taima. Kieran was there, had probably led her and Hercules back to the pasture to brush and untack them. He was lugging Hercules’ saddle to a nearby post when he spotted Charles stalking towards him and there was a flash of anxiety in his eyes.

Still so nervous, the poor kid. Even weeks after they’d untied him from that tree at Horseshoe Overlook. Charles hadn’t really had a part in his imprisonment, had tried to keep to himself even though he thought that Dutch had been unnecessarily cruel to the squirrely little man. Kieran Duffy was no more a threat than a mouse in a barn full of hungry cats.

“Oh- Mister Smith, I untacked your horse I- I hope you don’t mind, I just thought-“ he stutters, clutching the saddle with white knuckles. Charles raised a hand, shook his head and tried to make himself look a bit less threatening with a softer expression and relaxed shoulders.

“Thanks, Kieran, I’ll take it from here,” he says and Kieran visibly eases, hangs up the saddle, and walks back towards camp.

Taima nickers when she sees him, but as he approaches, she gives him a very mare-specific look and pinned ears and Charles mutters a soothing apology to his horse. He sees her saddle on a nearby hitching post and quickly retrieves a few oatcakes from his bags, as well as a poultice made of burdock roots and other herbs for her legs, undoubtedly sore from how hard he’d pushed her today.

She accepts his bribe of oatcakes quickly, though still flicks her tail harshly in his face as he leans down to rub her legs with the poultice. Charles smiles, small and brief, at her attitude, and he rubs her down with soothing, practiced strokes and whispered praise. He’s relieved when he doesn’t feel any stiffness or heat in her joints and is, same as ever, grateful for her strength and dependability. He leaves and quickly comes back with more hay, for both her and Hercules- who had begun nudging him for attention as well.

Charles takes a moment with the amber stallion, brushing him down and checking his legs as well. Just because he can, he gives him an oatcake. The stallion had been through a lot today too and he knew Arthur would want the best treatment for him.

When he’s satisfied the horses are fine, he goes to the nearby fire. It’s more a collection of softly glowing embers now, since it was usually the least populated fire in the camp, especially at night, so he adds a few logs from a nearby pile and watches as the flames start to grow again. He thinks of sleeping. It had been night for hours now and he was probably more exhausted than he realized, but his eyes kept drifting to Arthur’s wagon. It was just Miss Grimshaw now, Dutch and Hosea seemingly off to get some rest.

Well, if Charles wasn’t going to sleep Miss Grimshaw might as well, right? His feet are carrying him towards the blue wagon before he’s even finished the thought in his head. He clears his throat as he enters the dim light cast by the lantern on the table and Miss Grimshaw twitches her eyes towards him, dipping her head in acknowledgment of his presence.

“How is he?” Charles dares to ask, trying to keep his voice steady and normal.

“Could be better,” she says with a concerned tone and deep lines cast on her face. Charles could see now how she was the matron figure of the gang, and she’d probably been with Arthur for a majority of his life. “We did what we could, I suppose the rest is up to him.” Her gaze settles on her lap, shoulders stooped low, sapped of energy but wound tight with worry.

“I could watch him, if you wanted to get some sleep, Miss Grimshaw,” Charles offers and tries to look the appropriate amount of concerned, even though he’s wishing with every ounce that she allows him to stay with Arthur. She turns to look at him and considers Charles. With a slight nod, she gets up from the chair and moves away.

“Thank you, Mister Smith. And... Thank you for bringing him home, too,” she pats his shoulder briefly as she passes and then she’s walking away.

Charles struggles not to rush to the chair and pull it closer to the side of the cot. Arthur's blanket has been pulled up as high as it could go with his left shoulder poking out, and Charles can see the heavy bandaging crossing his torso and over his back, covering as much of the shoulder as possible. Blood has already started to stain even the outermost layers and Charles bites his tongue. In the morning when they change the bandages, he’d spread some poultice to stop the bleeding and help the process of healing. He drags his eyes over Arthur’s figure, landing back on the gash on his head- now sporting three stitches to hold the skin back together. Charles’s hand automatically moves up to brush an errant strand of hair away, and he’s struck by the heat radiating off of Arthur’s pallid forehead. Charles looks around, sees a cloth draped over a bucket of water, and quickly dampens it. His mind jumps to some herbs he could make a tea out of to help the fever go down. 

He brings the cloth up to Arthur's skin, gently wiping away small beads of sweat and clingy flecks of blood. His hair is still stained and sticky in places where blood has dried onto typically wheat-colored tresses. Charles is pondering the easiest way to wash his hair once he feels a bit stronger when bleary blue eyes blink open. Charles blinks back, hand still on Arthur’s forehead as their eyes meet.

“Hey,” Charles breathes, relief and something else softening his expression when Arthur just barely leans into his touch with a slow blink of his eyes and a small sigh. 

“Hey,” Arthur murmurs, "guess that's twice you've saved me, huh."

“Ah,” Charles exhales a chuckle and an easy nod, “I don’t think you realize how many times I’ve saved you without you noticing.”

Now Arthur is the one lightly chuckling, the sound of it makes Charles’ chest bubble warmly.

“You’re probably right ‘bout that,” he mutters, lips tugged in a small smirk. Charles gently moves the cloth across Arthur’s forehead a last time and then deposits it back on the bucket. Arthur’s eyes are closed again, breathing lightly. There’s a pause and Charles wonders if he’s drifted back to sleep.

But then Arthur's eyes blink open again, looking back towards Charles. The blues of his irises look darker and duller than normal and the whites are bloodshot. Once again, he’s struck by how much paler Arthur’s skin is, a sharp contrast to the the normal glow of weathered and sun kissed cheeks.

“How… how’d you find me, Charles?” Arthur softly asks, his voice is thick and laced with fatigue and pain, “I didn’t even know where I was.”

“I picked up a trail, and some O’Driscoll’s passed by me so I went in the direction they came from,” Charles recalled, leaning his elbows on his knees, “then Taima must’ve recognized Hercules.”

“How is he?”

“Fine, grazing with Taima. I gave him some treats,” Charles smiles fondly, feeling warm and fuzzy in his chest. Arthur nods in approval with another small sigh and his eyes close again.

Charles bites his lip, remembering the moment they’d found each other. How Arthur had collapsed into the river and been so _still_ Charles feared for a moment he was too late.

“I- I thought you were dead, for a second,” Charles murmurs, and his voice feels thick and stuck in his throat. Arthur blearily opens his eyes once more and meets his.

His left-hand weakly turns palm up from where it sits on the blanket, close to Charles’s position next to him. There’s no conscious thought as he instinctively reaches his own hand to grasp Arthur’s, squeezing gently.

“It’ll take more to kill me than some silly ol’ O’Driscoll,” Arthur murmurs and dimly squeezes Charles’ hand back. Charles’ heart feels too big in his chest and he doesn’t think he’d ever felt so… _soft,_ and worried, and relieved, and everything all at once.

He understood Dutch’s hatred for Colm O’Driscoll a whole lot better now than he did this morning.

“You stayin’?” Arthur asks, his voice heavy and saturated with the sleep he’s on the verge of, eyes barely staying open.

“Of course,” Charles answers. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now. Arthur finally closes his eyes with a small, satisfied _hmm_ and after a few moments his breathing slows and evens out in a sleepy rhythm.

Their hands are still linked on top of the blanket. Charles absentmindedly traces small circles on the back of Arthur’s knuckles, bruised in a kaleidoscope of garish blues, purples, and reds. He knits his brows together as he realizes he’s not quite sure how Arthur escaped his imprisonment. He sees evidence of rope burns on Arthur’s wrists but there’s obvious signs of a fight, too.

He closes his eyes, takes a breath. The important thing is that Arthur had made it out. He was alive. Sure, he was heavily injured, feverish in his body’s fight against infection, and pale with blood loss, but he was _alive._

Charles turned Arthur’s hand just enough to put a finger on the pulse point at the wrist, reveling in the heartbeat he felt there. Weak, maybe, not quite what a healthy heart rate felt like, but it was there.

The camp is eerily quiet, sounds of vague snoring and night-time peepers and crickets fill the air. At some point, Charles reluctantly positions Arthur’s arm across his chest, letting go of his hand and sitting up to crack his spine briefly before settling back in, watching Arthur’s chest rise and fall with steady breaths.

He’s not sure how much time passes, but he must have dozed off at some point because he wakes with a jolt when there’s a sudden pressure at his shoulder. He looks and sees Hosea standing over him, cup of coffee steaming in his hand. The lines on his face seem deeper and Charles can’t help but see all the years etched into his skin like a map of his long life. There's a cold, barely-there light of dawn starting to seep into camp around them.

“How is he?” Hosea asks, nodding towards a still-sleeping Arthur.

“I think he’ll pull through,” Charles says through a yawn that stretches and pops in his jaw.

“Good. You should go get some rest, Charles,” Hosea pats the hand on Charles’ shoulder and moves away, taking a sip of hot coffee. Charles hesitates.

“His bandages should be changed- I, uh, wanted to put a poultice on the wound. Help it heal faster,” he says, standing up slowly. “I can go get it,” and with another brief look at Arthur’s sleeping form, he quickly strides over to his bedroll, collecting a jar of poultice he’d prepared during his week of mandatory rest.

Hosea is easing Arthur into a sitting position when he gets back, coffee resting on the table beside bundles of bandages and a canteen of water, and though he’s trying to hide it Charles can see the brows furrowed in pain and the sharp exhale through his teeth. He’s at their side in an instant, arm reaching up automatically to support Arthur, who’s wheezing lightly with the more labored breath. With more of his torso revealed, Charles can see the sea of bruises on his ribs. A deep purple that starts just beneath the bandages, spreading out like a stain and turning red closer towards the edges. Charles wouldn’t be surprised if there was a broken rib or two in there, as well, and another flame of fury towards those damned O’Driscoll’s settles deep in his gut.

They start the painstaking process of changing the bandages with few words passed between the three men. Arthur is compliant as Hosea moves his arm as they unravel the now bloodied old bandages and when the skin is revealed once more, it takes a lot of effort to not flinch back at the sight and smell.

Hosea leans over to the cloth and the water bucket, dunks in the tag and wrings out the water. He picks up the jar of poultice that Charles had put on the table, inspecting it with a nod as he seemingly recognizes the bits of plant matter.

“This stuff will really help, thank you Charles,” Hosea says, nodding his head and setting it down as he gets to work on dabbing Arthur’s wound with the wet cloth.

Charles hovers awkwardly, not quite sure what he could do to help in such a small space. Not even quite sure he should be there.

Hosea peeks back with a raised brow and the most subtle of smirks. Charles tries not to look at him, feeling a flush creep at the back of his neck because he can tell Hosea _knows_ something none of them are willing to say.

“Go get some rest, Charles, you’ve had a long night,” Hosea says simply, softly. Arthur glances up at him and nods his head as their eyes meet. Charles clears his throat and nods back, turning away and towards his tent.

The sunlight grows around him as he finally lays down, glad that his bedroll doesn’t face east and he probably won’t be bothered by the light until noon, at least. Exhaustion finally catches up to him as he sinks into his blankets, head swimming in so many emotions he’s glad when sleep finally takes him if only to enjoy a reprieve from the noise in his head.

His last conscious thought is how relieved he’d been when his eyes had met those familiar, comforting blues of Arthur’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember the first few chapters of this fic? 4k words that could read more or less as one shots? lmao


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur recovers, and unformed thoughts and feelings find some footing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS hank you all so much for the amazing comments and feedback it keeps me going!! I don’t reply to each one but know that I read every comment and blush and grin like a fool every time.  
> Here’s something soft because I love Charles and Arthur and all of you guys reading it <3

Everything _hurts_ and Arthur wonders why he never appreciated his body before, when his skin didn’t burn and every muscle didn’t ache and he could take a deep breath without poking his lung against a broken rib and when he could move his shoulder- his _shoulder-_

Arthur couldn’t even remember ever appreciating his left shoulder and the whole arm attached to it. Now he wishes he had. Now it’ll probably never be the same again. 

He’s biting back sharp intakes of air as Hosea works on him, spreading the salve Charles had brought and wrapping fresh bandages across the sticky, sweaty expanse of Arthur’s skin. He tries not to focus on the bandages, the smell, the sight. His mind goes somewhere else, catching a faint whiff of the poultice under the bandaging.

Charles.

His left arm may be useless, but his hand still felt a slight tingle where a solid, warm palm had grasped his own. It’d been the only thing anchoring him, keeping him from getting lost in the sea of fever and pain. He takes a breath, wary of Hosea’s concerned gaze burning into the side of his head.

A canteen of water is passed to him and he weakly reaches with his good arm, tilting it and basking in the cool feel of water on his throat as he drinks. Hosea still hasn’t said anything, the two men sit in silence.

It wasn’t the first time Hosea had been at Arthur’s side while he nursed various injuries. They’d both lived a life of violence too long now to not have some sense of familiarity with the motions of bandaging and sewing and spreading poultices and praying the infection goes away.

But there was a heaviness, or apprehension, or _something else_ that hung in the air between them and Arthur was just too tired to put it into words. So he didn’t, just drank his water, allowed Hosea to lift the blanket and change the bandages on his thigh, to inspect the broken rib and the cut his temple and the busted knuckles of his hands.

Eventually he’s gently eased back down into a lying position and Arthur closes his eyes with a heavy sigh, he hoped could sleep to find reprieve from the cresting fever that made him feel too hot yet too cold and just _uncomfortable_ and he just wanted the comfort of unconsciousness, but there was something in the air that didn’t allow him to slip under the safety of sleep. Words left unsaid that needed to be formed. He opened his eyes again, hoped Hosea would say something.

“I knew it was a trap,” Hosea starts at last, and Arthur blinks towards him with a tilt of his head.” 

“We all knew it was a trap.”

“Dutch shouldn’t have gone,” his voice drops, a weary glance thrown to the big white tent nearby. “I should’ve-“

“We both know we couldn’t have changed his mind once it was made,” Arthur tries to chuckle, but it’s empty. It was a slippery slope once you started saying ‘I should’ve...’ A simple ‘what if’ was a hope for a different outcome that Arthur had learned long ago not to hold too much faith to. Not in this life, anyway.

“Do you remember what happened?” Hosea probes, brow furrowed in all sorts of emotions. Concern, anxiety, relief, and something that almost looked like fury sitting on the backburner in his mind. Arthur turns his head away, settles his gaze on the dancing shadows of foliage on the canvas of his roof- early morning sun beginning to brighten around them.

“Was covering Dutch ‘n Micah from a cliff, then I got snuck up on and they grabbed me. Don’t remember much… had lovely chat with Colm. Said he was using me as bait- to lure Dutch ‘n you in for the law. Guess he thought they’d forget about him if they got Dutch.”

Hosea rubs his chin pensively, nodding his head vaguely as Arthur spoke.

There’s another silence. But as much as he wishes he could, he doesn’t sleep.

“Got away, though.”

“You’ve always been able to shimmy away from tough spots, haven’t you?” There’s a ghost of a smirk, memories of Arthur when he was young and reckless but as slippery as a fish, able to escape the law just as easily as he could escape his two surrogate fathers before they’d taught him any manners and he’d developed a habit of stealing things off them just to see if he _could_. Arthur closes his eyes and _hmms_ as he exhales. Knows that there’s still something left to be addressed.

“Charles found me,” Arthur murmurs, heartbeat heavy in his chest as his mind stretches to recall a memory, bright and warm in the midst of the chaos and fear and pain during his ordeal. But there’s something tainting it, something Arthur hasn’t dared to think about. Dutch had looked _surprised_ when they’d gotten into camp. Dutch hadn’t been the one to find him.

“I knew he would,” Hosea confirms, pursing his lips and when Arthur looked back, he saw that back-burner fury again, even masked as it was with guilt and unease. There are _words_ , damn it, Arthur can’t think of them.

“What…. Dutch, what did he-“ Arthur worries his lip, scowling as he tried to form a cohesive thought. Felt like he was dragging his mind through deep mud.

“He and Micah rode into camp, said the meeting felt _odd_ and they’d needed to get out of there… said you didn’t show at the rendezvous, assumed you’d just gone your own way when you saw them leave... None of it felt right, if you ask me,” Hosea scowls again, shaking his head. “I tried talking to Dutch but… well, you know how he’s been.”

Arthur bites his tongue. Knows what Hosea’s trying to say.

Dutch hasn’t been the same, and not for a while. It had been a long time since it was just the three of them, things had changed. After Blackwater, after Colter, and the mess in Valentine, and everything… this Dutch wasn’t the same man that raised Arthur, that Hosea had been running with for god-knows how long. Before, Dutch had preached his truths- which had included _no man left behind_. And now…

“He didn’t come looking for me.” Arthur finally says it and he wishes it could sound more like a question instead of a statement of truth. Wishes that the pit in his stomach didn’t sink impossibly further, settling deep and disappointed. Hosea doesn’t answer, looks at him with sad, old eyes.

“I sent Charles out to find you. I’m glad he did.”

“Charles is a wonder,” Arthur murmurs and it’s an echo of the words he’d said back in the mountains, after the first _win_ he’d felt since fleeing. He meant them then, means them even more now.

Hosea is still looking at him, but there is warmth in his posture now, the lines on his face relax a touch and there is a small, knowing little smirk that is playing at the corner of his lips. Arthur pointedly does not make eye contact.

“He’s certainly a good man, one of the best, I’d say,” the old man says and there’s a timbre of wisdom in his voice born from years of the life he’d led, of knowing things about people before they knew themselves. One of the things that made Hosea such a great conman was his ability to read people as easily as he read those mystery novels he was so fond of.

And he could read Arthur better than anyone else in the world, probably. Definitely. He had never managed to slip anything past Hosea, even when Dutch was oblivious. Hosea always knew.

He’d been the only one Arthur told of those two that might’ve led him to another life, if theirs hadn’t ended so quickly. He’d been the only one to know of Arthur’s grief even as he’d tried to drown himself in work and _anything_ else to get away from it.

He probably knew now, too, how Arthur’s heart just seemed to thump awkwardly in his chest whenever a certain huntsman was near. Hosea probably knew things Arthur hadn’t even dared to form in a cohesive thought.

But he doesn’t say anything, tells Arthur to get some rest with a light pat on his arm, and Arthur finally closes his eyes despite the day just beginning. He was tired, and he was hurt, and he just wanted some sleep.

He can think plenty when he wakes up. 

———

A whole day passes- or maybe two? He’s asleep for most of it. His body sweats out the infection in his shoulder and his bandages get changed intermittently. At some point, Tilly is there, saying soft words of worry that he can’t remember. Another time, it was Miss Grimshaw, fussing and fretting and lifting his head up to drink something for the fever or the pain or whatever and that’s nice because the liquid dulls his senses and sticks to his tongue like a mint, masking the horrible taste of blood and morning breath. Reverend Swanson makes an appearance, though Arthur keeps his eyes closed as he listens vaguely to the man’s mutterings as he reads from a bible in his hands. Doesn’t remember any of those words either.

Recovery is worse than the initial injury, he thinks. He hates himself when he’s forced to ask Hosea for help because he needs to _piss_ but his leg hurts and he can’t even _walk_ , still feeling like his thigh was torn open by a bullet and his ankles were scabbed and bruised and felt crushed where the shackles had taken his weight. Dusty canvas tarps are brought out, hung up to give Arthur’s wagon a sense of privacy he hasn’t felt in a long time and it almost, _almost_ , makes it less embarrassing when he relieves himself into a bucket that’s quickly taken away. Nasty business. He misses the simplicity of walking up to a hidden tree.

People drift in and out and Arthur barely recalls who it was lifting his head to take a sip of water or who’s wiping away sweat or who’s checking his bandages. He’s pretty sure Hosea tugs him up at some point and helps him change into a fresh union suit- tossing the ruined and bloodied one away into a fire, hopefully. He wanders between fever dreams and the conscious awareness of a presence near him like a leaf being suddenly blown into motion by a swift breeze, floating to settle on the ground for a brief moment before another gust of air comes through again.

The next time he’s fully awake, he’s finally strong enough to actually sit up and maybe even have a conversation, and he’s relieved to see it’s Charles on the chair by his cot. The sun is setting lowly behind the lake spread out beyond their camp, setting the canvas walls around him alight in a hazy orange glow and he’s not entirely convinced he’s not in some other weird dream.

But he’s lifting a cup of hot liquid that smells like the forest and it feels real enough Arthur’s pretty sure he’s awake. The bitter, earthy tea anchors him further into consciousness and he doesn’t even wince when it burns his tongue slightly. It’s the most human he’s felt since he’d ridden out with Micah and Dutch, all those days ago. Weeks ago? Who knew.

He focuses on his senses, the stinging on his tongue, the taste sitting at the back of his throat from the tea, the fuzzy dream-like glow of his shelter, the sound of Charles’ honeyed voice saying something about the herbs in the tea that should help him break the fever.

They sit in a warm silence and Arthur finishes the tea, letting Charles take the empty mug when he lowers it. Arthur brings up his good hand to his face, rubbing his forehead and suddenly realizing how disgusting his hair was as he tried to thread his finger through it. He can feel the left side of his scalp pulling slightly where hair has dried in matted clumps probably tinged with the dark burgundy color of old blood. He gently pats the stiff hair, cringing a bit at the blood and the dirt caked onto him.

“You need a bath,” Charles states, eyeing Arthur’s dirtied head.

“You sayin’ I stink?” Arthur grumbles, but feels a slight chuckle bubbling up somewhere deep inside him.

“I was going to say you reek, actually,” Charles says gruffly but there’s an amused smirk on his face and Arthur can’t help but return it- though he tries to hide it with a downwards tilt of his head- he realizes he misses the comfort of the shadow his hat provides, and distantly he mourns the loss of it, surely lost somewhere in the Heartlands. He worries his lip for a moment before glancing back up at Charles.

“Can you uh- if you jus’ get me some water I can prob’-“

“If you want me to help you only need to ask, Arthur,” Charles says and there’s a tenderness in the depths of his voice that makes Arthur’s heart flutter in his bruised chest. He clears his throat and nods, looking down again, hoping he can pass off the flush he feels as a sign of his fever- even fading as it was. 

“I’d appreciate that, Charles,” he mumbles and mindlessly scratches his jaw, glancing briefly at the man as he chuckles and gets up to fetch the needed materials. Arthur is left alone, leaning his head back and gazing upwards at the ceiling of his wagon, now cast in dark shadows and fading amber light.

He takes a breath he hadn’t realized he’d lost and tries to calm his fluttery heartbeat. But he recognizes the feeling and his mind is flooded with memories of older emotions- of warmth and tenderness and belonging. He was sure he’d left any possibility of ever feeling like this again behind him long ago- shut behind closed doors when he and Mary had split the last time or buried six feet in the ground under two crosses.

But there it was, similar yet different. Familiar but new. Comforting, but exiting in the way that it was something _else,_ something unknown.

Arthur takes as deep a breath as his tender ribs will allow, huffs it out with a resigned _hm_. He truly was the king of fools, if there was such a thing.

His mind wanders, recalling sunny rides and hunting trips and star-filled skies, a clink of beers, a grasp of arms in the midst of chaos. Smiles and jokes hidden from the rest, given freely to him. A wooden carving of Hercules, a steaming cup of tea, poultices made by strong yet tender hands.

A king of fools indeed.

  
  


* * *

Charles kneels in front of the fire, boiling water to bring to Arthur. After two days it seemed the worst of the infection was finally fading, and Charles hoped that the tea he’d made would help finally break the fever and keep it away for good.

An unspoken schedule formed between Arthur’s caretakers. Hosea in the morning, relieved by Tilly for a while before Miss Grimshaw moved in around dinnertime and then it was Charles, making sure Arthur still breathed throughout the night. And Dutch… Dutch kept himself busy, away from camp for the majority of the days since Arthur’s return, avoiding Hosea’s pointed glares and barely glancing in Arthur’s direction even given the proximity of their tents. Charles had even caught Dutch looking at him once or twice, a shadowed look in his eyes that he never acted out on, never said anything about. But Charles could tell that their supposedly wise and fearless leader probably wanted to reprimand him for the blatant disobedience, and was only kept back by the guilt of the situation. To face Charles, or Hosea, and especially Arthur, would be to face his mistake, would be to swallow his pride and admit he was wrong and that… that wasn’t something Charles thought Dutch would ever submit to.

This was the third night, and Charles had come in with a cup of herbal tea steaming in his hand to find Arthur awake and even attempting to push himself up into a sitting position. He’d waved away Charles’ caution, grumbling something about needing to sit up for a while because he’d been ‘ _layin on my damn ass for too long_ ’, as he’d put it.

Even through his worry, Charles found relief at the first sign of Arthur’s strength and stubbornness peeking through the injuries and the sickness. The first sign that the worst was over.

Charles couldn’t bother keeping his eyes off of Arthur, watched him drink his tea and stare off into space, had watched him absentmindedly rub a hand on his face and land on matted and bloodied hair. And hadn’t Charles been wondering about cleaning it somehow, when he’d first brought Arthur back? Now here he was, healed just enough where they could worry over the less life-threatening things, like washing his hair.

And so here Charles was, warming some water to help Arthur wash his hair, replaying the scene in his head. Arthur’s soft, hidden chuckle and the way he scratched at the growing stubble on his jaw- some sort of nervous habit Charles had learned of the man and once he’d noticed it he saw it _constantly_.

It fascinated Charles, sometimes, the shift between _outlaw_ and simple, nature loving _cowboy_. A toughened criminal that could knock out a man in one punch and then turn around to gently kneel down to scratch the ears of a stray dog, cooing _‘who’s a good boy’_ and sneaking a piece of jerky from his satchel. Charles often found himself looking for those moments any time they’d be together- the tenderness hidden beneath weathered, patch-work armor. The kind man hiding behind brick walls.

Charles had never been a sentimental man, really. He’d never held on to anything that he couldn’t carry on his back or his saddlebags. He was pretty sure the longest form of any relationship he’d had, besides his family and even that… wasn’t a long time, was his bond with Taima- who’d amazingly been at his side for seven years. She’d wedged herself deep into his heart and he feared the day she’d no longer be able to carry him more than he feared his own demise. For a long time he’d been sure that his love for his horse would be the only kind his heart would ever know or understand.

Now, however, there was something- someone- else wedged right alongside her in his heart and it was something else entirely, something bigger.

But Charles can’t put into words what that means to him, so he puts it in a box in his mind and does the task he’s set out to do. He heats the water until it’s a comfortable temperature, finds a bar of soap, a towel, a clean cup and a large bowl, and somehow manages to bring it all back into Arthur’s makeshift tent all in one trip.

They figure out the logistics with a few half-finished sentences and questions that probably wouldn’t make sense to anyone except the two. A series of ‘ _how do you-_ , ‘ _I’ll just-_ ‘, _‘careful-‘, ‘’course I’m careful_ -‘ and a grumble as they settle. His arms are strong, supporting Arthur as he’s carefully maneuvered onto the chair Charles had been on earlier. Arthur grits his teeth as he tries to put his weight on his feet for the first time in two days, and more or less collapses into the seat that’s thankfully not too far away, placed just in front of the table where Charles has set down the bowl to catch water. He scoots forward in the chair and leans back with another small groan until his head is tilted back and directly over the bowl

“Let me know if it’s too hot,” Charles says as he lifts the bucket of heated water with a heave onto the table, scoops out a cupful and gently pours it over Arthur’s scalp, wary of spilling it all over his face. He notes that Arthur’s skin doesn’t feel or look nearly as feverish as it did, even just last night. Relief pours over him like the water over Arthur’s crown.

He’s stood awfully close to the other man, by nature of the job he’s doing, and he’s glad Arthur’s eyes have closed again as a small sigh escapes his lips at feeling the warm water wash over his skin. He doesn’t see the slight flush of Charles cheeks.

It was easy to get lost in the motions, one hand slowly emptying out the repurposed cup while the other gingerly wets the hair and works away the dry blood. He massages in the soap and works it into a lather, tries not to stare at the quiet sort of contentment softening Arthur’s features.

“Mm, can’t remember the last time I went to a barber,” Arthur says, and Charles runs his fingers through the strands which, now that he thinks about it, are getting the longest Charles can remember. He tries to think of something witty to say, to pry a small smile from the man below him, when Arthur continues. “This is much nicer.”

And Charles is glad that the lighting is pretty dim, because he feels a very specific flush rise in his cheeks again and he tries not to look down, afraid Arthur will see and think less of him.

A silly fear, he knows, but a fear driven by instinct born from years of masking his emotions. But here, in this shelter, with a misty glow cast by the red sun as it sinks deeper into the horizon, with Arthur wounded and vulnerable below him, he doesn’t feel the need for any mask.

“Maybe I’ll leave the life, open up my own barbershop,” he muses and there’s a smile in his voice, on his lips. He feels the puff of air from Arthur’s responding chuckle. His fingers work the soapy lather through to the back of Arthur’s head, and his mind travels suddenly back to forgotten moments in his childhood.

His mother, brushing out unruly hair that grew faster than weeds, tutting him when he tried to weasel his way out of her grasp. She’d mix in oils and tonics made from yarrow or yucca or mint and tell him about the meaning of his hair- how it connected their culture together, brought them closer as a tribe, and connected them to the very spirit of the earth. She braided his barley tamed mane and told him why it was important.

 _“_ My mother… she used to tell me about the beliefs of her people, about hair and what it meant to us,” He’s speaking before he even realizes it, glancing down briefly at Arthur, who’s looking up at him with wide, attentive eyes. Charles was hardly a man to share details of his past, and he suddenly felt strangely vulnerable. “She taught me that hair was a physical manifestation of our thoughts, like an extension of our spirit,” he clears his throat, runs his fingers over the water he’s pouring to rinse the bubbles away, “for her people… hair was identity. People would braid or brush each other’s hair as a sign of their bond and…” he drifts off, watching the last of the soap bubbles swirl into the murky water caught in the bowl beneath Arthur’s head. ‘ _And taking care of someone’s hair was to show them you cared for them. Don’t forget that, nikosis, it is a gesture of love.”_ Is what his mother had told him, but the words got caught somewhere in the middle of his chest. “And their trust in each other,” is what he says instead. 

But Arthur, gazing at him through his lashes with a tender depth in his eyes, seems to have heard the unsaid words anyway. Charles is looming over him like this, almost trapping Arthur in between his arms as he rinses away soap that isn’t there anymore. From the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur’s Adam’s apple bob with a gulp. Charles, though it takes a massive amount of effort from within him, pulls himself back, letting his arms fall and creating space between the two.

Any closer and Arthur probably would’ve been able to hear Charles’ galloping heartbeat, as loud as a herd of bison stampeding on the plains.

He clears his throat, mildly surprised he’d said so many words all in a row. He grabs the towel and shakes it out, letting Arthur take it from his hands with a strange look in his eye.

“Hmm, my ma told me my hair was no better than a birds nest,” he drawls and Charles actually laughs- a sharp lightness bubbling up between them where it had gotten… heavier, and Charles breathes out a relieved sort of sigh that’s also kind of a laugh, and he’s still so surprisingly at ease in this space they’ve created. Arthur, on his chair, chuckles heartedly, rubbing the towel into his wet hair, gazing at the ground in front of him to hide the shy grin and the soft look in his eyes that Charles catches anyway. Because over the past few weeks he has become something of an expert on covertly catching the looks Arthur tries so hard to hide.

Charles busies himself while Arthur reaches for a comb, he’d thought about offering to do it for him but Arthur had already started combing his freshly cleaned hair and seemed determined to do it himself, so Charles let him. Knew that it would make him feel better, feel like he was it was proof he was healing- which he was, fortunately. He took the bowl of dirtied water and sloshed it onto the ground somewhere behind Arthur’s wagon, came back tidied up what he could.

Arthur yawns deeply and doesn’t have to say anything when Charles is offering his arm, leaning down and helping Arthur stand up. Charles can smell the fresh scent of soap combined the the herbal poultice and something that is distinctly _Arthur_ and he’s thankful that it’s only one step to Arthur’s cot because he wasn’t sure how long he could breathe him in before his heart stuttered to a completely irrational rate.

Charles really hadn’t ever considered himself a fool, especially given some of the company he keeps. But he is starting to think he’s wrong about that. Arthur settles in but his grasp lingers as Charles gently helps him lay down. Their hands brush and Arthur catches his wrist with a small squeeze, a motion Charles automatically echoes.

“Thank you, Charles,” Arthur meets his eyes and holds his gaze, an occurrence so rare- especially with Arthur’s habit of shielding his eyes with the rim of his hat- it is almost a treasure, and Charles tries to memorize every heartbeat of it, every nuance in the blue-green irises. “For everythin’- I..”

“Ah…It’s nothin’,” Charles smiles, slipping into a slight drawl, “you’d do the same for me.” And there’s a smirk on Arthur’s face, recognition in his eyes, to a moonlit night full of fire and gunshots and running, and finding a quiet moment at the end of it.

They’re still looking at each other and Charles feels frozen in the moment. It would be so easy, he thinks, in the space of this heartbeat, to let slip a secret confession. A line so easily crossed with something as simple as a flick of a gaze downwards on his face before coming up to meet eyes once more. It would be so natural, and yet…

He doesn’t look down, doesn’t look away either, holds Arthur’s gaze as well as his wrist.

Another heartbeat passes and they both break away, looking only briefly at where they had grasped each other’s wrists. Charles clears his throat and excuses himself with the washing supplies, exiting into the cooler late evening air, puts things back where he found them.

When he returns, Arthur is seemingly asleep. Charles moves to dim the oil lantern on the table and settles into the chair, now turned to face Arthur again.

“Y’know, you don’t have to stay... Don’t think death’s gonna come knockin’ anymore,” Arthur murmurs, his voice gravely and deep.

“Do you want me to go?” Charles asks, raises a brow when Arthur doesn’t respond, blinks one eye lazily open to glance at his companion, closes it again with the smallest shake of his head. Charles smiles, picks up a blanket that had been tossed across the trunk at Arthur’s feet, wraps himself in it, and rests his own feet on an empty space of the cot near Arthur’s legs.

He knows he doesn’t have to stay, knows that the fever has all but broken and it’s unlikely Arthur’s heart will stop beating in his sleep but… Charles can’t bring himself to leave just yet.

He stays until Arthur’s breathing has leveled out in the familiar rhythm of sleep, and Charles tells himself he should get to his own bedroll, but instead he finds himself following Arthur’s breathing and pretty soon, he’s dozed off where he sits, head lolled to the side as the tent is filled with the light sounds of two synchronized breaths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all it’s impossible not to get rly soft and fluffy with these two
> 
> Edit: nikosis - in Charles' flashback to what guess mother told him, I've inserted the Cree word for 'my son'. Charles specific native heritage was never confirmed , but it seems like the fandom has more or less decided he might have hailed from the Cree people, so I've gone with that as well.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a few vignettes to pass the time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a bit different because i feel like the past few chapters have been super like, plot heavy and stuff. i wanted something a bit lighter i guess and to progress a bit more plot-wise. this follows the transition between clemens point to shady belle.  
> the fluff turns to pain so fast you might get mild whiplash.

They said time healed all wounds.

But, goddamn, time dragged on and on.

Arthur was hobbling around camp by the end of the first week, even if he did have a slight limp and his ankles ached unbearably if he put weight on them for too long. But he managed to at least walk to the field where Hercules now grazed- a short distance away from Arthur’s wagon, up a small rise. He’d shuffle over in the mornings, find peace in being able to relieve himself in the trees again, and then rest his weary bones in the company of his horse.

And Charles, usually. Charles was almost always around- occasionally he’d be away hunting when Pearson would start to whine about the lack of food- but he’d never be gone more than a few hours before he’d find Arthur again. Sometimes they’d sit near the horses, watching them graze and lazily flick their ears at the shared stories and meandering conversations between the two men. Other times, Charles sat with Arthur and showed him how to fletch arrows and how to create arrows that could cleanly kill a rabbit or even take down a cougar in one shot. He’d gotten a mischievous look in his eye and told Arthur about a time he’d gotten curious and attached a stick of dynamite to an arrow and Arthur filed away the information somewhere in his head because, well, who wouldn’t need to blow something up at some point?

He sketched in his journal a lot, and now his pages were filled with various images of camp from all angles, rough illustrations of their day-to-day life. At least two or three double page spreads were filled with sketches of the horses- Hercules, mostly, but Taima’s spotted coat had taken up an entire page when Arthur had realized how fun it was to mark down the flurry of spots of the appaloosa. 

He hadn’t written anything since before his episode with Colm. Couldn’t bring himself to put words onto paper. Couldn’t bring himself to think too hard about the whole ordeal, to think about the sadness and… betrayal, even, that had settled in somewhere deep in his bones.

So he distracted himself, allowed his body to rest and recuperate before he was sent back out into the fray, back into the chaos that Dutch was stirring up in Rhodes, back to the world that wanted him no longer.

He let himself get lost in softly spoken moments with the golden sun glinting off of the swish of a horse's tail, a honeyed voice that harmonized with the whispering breezes in the forest that sheltered them from the storm waiting outside.

•••

Dutch finally sat down with Arthur one day with a strange sort of remorse in his eyes and an _‘I’m sorry,_ _I was a fool’_ that Arthur might’ve believed if it hadn’t sounded so hollow, hadn’t left _him_ feeling hollow as well.

A chill settled under his skin, sent goosebumps down his spine when he’d caught sight of Micah sauntering around camp with his chin held disturbingly high and his eyes as cold as a rattler’s.

Arthur spent the rest of the day on the outskirts of camp, only comforted when he sat in front of a fire in the company of the horses nearby and Charles next to him, passing a cigarette back and forth as the smoke swirled and misted around them.

•••

Hercules’ tail sways, warding away buzzing summer flies and Arthur does his best to etch the motion of it into his journal.

Another day spent circling camp like a caged-up dog, bored from his bedrest and healed just enough to start walking around mostly normally. He'd been having drinks with some of the men when Bill had said something stupid and Arthur had gotten grumpy, retreated back to the good company of the horses instead with his back facing towards camp and his shoulders wound up to his ears in frustration.

He cursed his shoulder, the limp, the lungs that still ached if he sighed too deeply. His scowl was ingrained into his skin and his face twitched when he tried to soothe out his expression. He tried to calm down by losing himself in another sketch of his horse, but the pencil lines on the paper were too harsh to be anything resembling 'calm.'

Then there’s a sudden weight on his head- a hat pushed down too far so that he had to lift a hand to push it out of his eyes. He lifts the rim and turns his head to find Charles, a subtle smirk betrayed by the softness in his eyes.

“Thought you’d want it back,” he says, nods to Arthur’s head.

He takes the hat off, a wide smile cracking his face when he recognizes the worn, black leather and the rope tassel.

“How’d you find this?”

“When I went to find you.”

He huffs, amazed and surprisingly relieved at having his hat- the same one he’d carried on his head like a piece of armor for _decades_. There weren’t many things that had stayed with him throughout his life- traveling and running as often as they did- but his hat was always there. Attached to his body like the very hair he grew.

He’d thought it’d be gone, lost to the wind and the tumbleweeds somewhere deep in the plains.

But here it was, because Charles had found it.

Because Charles had found him.

The tense grip of frustration that had held him just a moment ago dissipates like smoke in the wind and he smiles, as easy as slipping the hat back onto his head. 

“Thank you, Charles.”

“Anytime, Arthur.”

•••

He wakes with a sharp gasp and his knuckles turn white where he’s gripped his thread-bare blanket; his nightmare pulses in his veins like poison, sending his heart racing down a tumbling path of distress. There’s a cold film of sweat on his skin and his lungs don’t seem to take in the right amount of air.

 _Just a nightmare_ , he tells himself, trying to remember how to breathe.

It wasn’t real.

The fire he’d felt melting his shoulder wasn’t real.

His leg was still in one piece, the only sign of any duress on his thigh was an angry red scar along his skin.

Colm, his voice dripping of venom and blood, wasn’t anywhere near him, his bony finger wasn’t leaving a burning trail down his chest.

His ribs ached but he could breathe, he was alive.

Arthur doesn’t bother laying back down, knows he couldn’t go back to sleep even if tried. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to go back to sleep, regardless. He pulls on his boots and lifts himself off the cot.

His feet carry him through camp, footsteps falling quiet among gentle snores and the soft shuffling of blankets as someone turned in their sleep. A low breeze whispers among the leaves of the great tree in the center of camp as he passes by, half-full moon casting a pale glow on the horses. He makes his way to the dark of the forest, where he knows he’ll find a watchful guard.

Charles was suddenly bathed in the bright light of a match, held up to the cigarette tucked in his lips. His eyes were already on Arthur as he approached, shadowed in the orange glow of the flame but gentle and soothing beneath it.

Arthur sits down, settles next to Charles with their backs pressed against the rough bark of a tree and their shoulders meeting with a comforting warmth that seeps into Arthur as he finally lets out a deep breath.

The end of Charles’ cigarette glows brightly in the dark as he takes a long drag before it’s moving towards Arthur. The cigarette is passed and maybe the sudden touch of their hands lingers just a second longer than what could pass as casual.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Charles’ voice steps into the blanketing quiet, reverberating in the air around them.

“Nightmare,” Arthur’s throat is scratchy with sleep, and he clears it before taking a drag of the cigarette.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Arthur grunts, a gravely sound from deep in his chest.

“Alright then.”

Crickets and peepers and a distant howl of a coyote fill the night air like an orchestra, conducted by the sway of the breeze and the twinkle of the stars above them. The cigarette is passed back and forth- a moving point of dim light like a firefly performing a dance- and Arthur lets his breathing calm, feels his heartbeat slow. The chill under his skin fades away until he has forgotten it was ever there.

“We were supposed to go huntin’,” Arthur finally says, and his voice is maybe a touch lighter, softened at the edges.

“We can go tomorrow, if you’re up for it,” there’s a slight shuffle of fabric as Charles moves to stub out the last of the cigarette.

“Won’t be too tired after your night shift?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sleep?”

Charles exhales low laugh, a rumbling in his chest that Arthur can feel through the shared touch of their shoulders. Arthur distantly curses the lack of light, hidden as they are in the shadows of the forest that sheltered them from the rest of the world. He wonders what Charles looked like, quietly giggling in the secret of the night.

•••

He rises up slightly from their hidden vantage point behind a cluster of trees. In front of him is his target, a particularly fat-looking boar that they’d tracked for the better part of the past two hours. Charles is crouched just behind him, radiating warmth and something else that Arthur found himself… longing for, though the word sounds sappy and Arthur is almost embarrassed to even think it.

He brushes away the thought, snapped back into the moment by the ache in his shoulder as he raises the bow up, nocks the arrow and points towards his target. He grits his teeth, struggling to keep his breathing steady as the ache grows into a sharp pain that makes his entire arm shake.

His hand is trembling, and he curses under his breath, tightening his grip on the bow until his knuckles turn white. A small ember of frustration catches in the back of his mind and he hates the tremor and hates the anxious bubbling in his stomach and hates the intrusive thought of _you’ll never be fully healed, you’re no good to no one no more-_

A warm hand, heavy but soothing comes to rest on his shoulder and the heat of it deflates the nervous bubble that had started to grow in Arthur’s chest.

“Just breathe,” Charles whispers it, so low Arthur might’ve mistaken it for a rustling breeze if he hadn’t felt Charles’ body step even closer to his own, his quiet presence radiating like the sun on Arthur’s skin.

Arthur’s nerves light up, but he relaxes under the touch. He forces himself to stare straight ahead, narrows down his vision to just the target in front of him. The warmth on his shoulder settles into his bones and Arthur takes a calming breath, feels the quaking of his arm begin to relax.

“Let go on the exhale,” the heavy point of warmth on his shoulder moves, slides down his arm and leaves a trail of heat and goosebumps on Arthur’s skin. Charles’ hand stops at his elbow, a gentle pressure that settles the stubborn tremble of the injured limb. Arthur empties his mind- because if he stopped and actually thought any, he’d probably burst into flames even in the humid air. He stares ahead at the shuffling boar.

His right hand moves back, inhaling deeply as he pulls the string taut- arrow nocked into place

Lungs deflate in an exhale, fingers let go of the string and the arrow flies-

Drives itself into the chest of his prey- barely squealing with a shocked gasp as it fell- struck through the heart.

“Good shot,” Charles’ hand retreats, but heat still radiates off him and Arthur can feel dark eyes on him. The words of praise sizzle in his ears.

“Had a good teacher,” Arthur says, and clears his throat when his voice comes out lower and coarser than he’d intended. He chances a glance over his shoulder to see Charles’ eyes flit away shyly, a small smile on his lips. He stood up from his crouch, moving upwards and offering a hand back down to Arthur- who reaches up on instinct, allows himself to be pulled up by now familiar strength. He dumbly follows Charles towards the felled boar.

He allows himself a second- a heartbeat, really- to reflect on the warm hand that had been on his shoulder. Hands he’d seen beat men into the dust, hands that had pulled triggers and threw knives and could be so deadly and yet… so gentle, soothing, delicate. He wondered how Charles managed to be so strong yet so graceful and purposeful in every movement- every word- every goddamn breath. For one heartbeat, he allowed himself to feel a flush in his cheeks and a flutter in his chest at the warmth he still felt on his skin.

The sun begins to dip into the western horizon by the time they turn back towards camp. Taima and Hercules both loaded up with the boar and several turkeys strung up on their saddles, following behind Charles and Arthur on foot.

They fall into step and a comfortable silence as they hike back, pointing out bright orange orioles flitting in the trees or picking sage that grows just off the trail, and Arthur breathes more easily than he had in weeks.

•••

He gets three weeks of rest- if that’s even what it could be called. Three weeks spent recovering from broken ribs, two gunshot wounds, and so many other bruises and cuts _._ He’d found flashes of respite in it all, small moments under the foliage of the forest or among horses grazing around them. Short pauses where he let himself forget about the lunacy going on around him.

Dutch had kept on scheming, sending out Bill or John or whoever and wrapping them all tighter and tighter in a web of lies and conflict.

Three weeks was all Arthur go before was thrown back into the chaos and the reality of his life.

Gunpowder stung his nostrils and the rifle in his hand was practically vibrating in his clutch as bullets ricocheted off of the wooden buildings of Rhodes.

He should’ve known something was wrong. The town had been too quiet as they’d walked through, the men leaning on lampposts and fences and their shadowed glances towards them should’ve tipped him off. He should’ve been better.

Sean lay dead on the ground somewhere nearby and Arthur didn’t even have time to register the loss before he was being shot at from seemingly all sides.

His shoulder ached with every harsh movement as he rolled and ducked from cover to cover, barely avoiding the burning bullets blasting in the air all around him.

The silence after is worse, though, when he finally kneels by Sean’s body. His chest tightens as he chokes back the sudden grief of losing the Irishman.

_He was a good kid._

That night, they stand at a freshly dug grave with heavy shoulders. Karen places a bottle of whisky near the headstone before retreating, tears streaming down her cheeks as she’s embraced by Tilly and Mary-Beth. Arthur tries to catch her eye, give her a comforting look- but her head does not lift. She furrows her brows and she cries and Arthur can’t help her. Just like he couldn’t help Sean.

He stands towards the back of the small group circled around a new headstone. His knees ache and he’s got scrapes on his hands from collecting stones. Charles had dug the grave, taking the shovel away and appointing him to something less morbid with a sad, but understanding gaze and a brief squeeze of his forearm. Arthur hadn’t had it in him to argue.

Later, after he’s drifted away from the procession and the gang has wandered back towards camp to mourn in their own ways, he sits on a quiet stretch of beach with his back against a rock and his head tilted up to the stars.

Charles is there, steady and comforting as always. A warm radiator at his side. They hadn’t spoken more than a few words, only shared looks that had spoken for them. A furrowed brow and a subtle shake of the head. A quiet consolation.

Sean is gone from the world and it is quiet, Arthur realizes. He strains to listen to the sounds of camp nearby- tries to find the sounds of drinking and laughter and boisterous singing in an accent thickened with liquor- but there is nothing save for the rustling of a breeze and the gentle laps of waves on the lake.

“Charles,” his voice is gruff, rasping in his throat and thick with a grief that can’t be spoken.

“Hm?” Just a sound, careful and quiet.

“Don’t… don’t go dyin’ before me.”

“Arthur…”

“Jus’-” he raises an interrupting hand, “We keep losin’ folk and I can’t…”

_I can’t lose you too. I will not lose you too._

Warm, calloused hands envelop his own. He squeezes back without thinking twice about it, palms fitting together as if they’d always belonged there. 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

•••

It’s a god _damn mess_ , and they keep digging themselves in deeper and deeper- stirring up so much dust it turns into a storm.

Jack has been kidnapped and Arthur _shifts,_ red rage tinting his mind, steels himself and prepares for battle- for war. His fury burns deeply in his chest. Arthur’s heart clenches and he looks at Abigail and John- a similar fury burning in their eyes. He sees a sense of something like clarity or purpose in John and swears the young man ages several years in those moments- finally coming to the realization of how truly blessed he was to have Jack- to have a _family_. Arthur may have lost his chance for it a long time ago, but he will not allow for John to lose his.

They ride into the manor and the scene is straight out of one of those dime novel westerns- a gang of outlaws brandishing weapons and bandoliers, lining up and marching like soldiers on the front line. They fight with bullets and gunpowder and _fire_.

He turns his back to the burning manor and the wailing matron, blood splattered on his clothes and thrumming loudly in his ears.

The flames in his chest keeps him going like a steam train, away from the ruined Braithewaite’s place. Fuel is only added to it after Agent Milton has the nerve to show up in the middle of their hideout, demanding Dutch’s head.

He barrels on ahead, single minded and steaming, all the way to Shady Belle and into Saint Denis, a place that unsettles him even further. He blazes through, follows Dutch into Angelo Bronte’s den. He scowls as he’s sent out to the graveyard with John to fetch something as if they were dogs- and maybe Arthur was, following orders and protecting his pack. The fire keeps thrumming in his veins pushes him as he chases and fights more enemies and runs from more law.

He does not stop seeing red until they are back at camp, little Jack back in his mother’s arms and the gang finally breathing in relief.

People celebrated around him, bursting into song and opening bottles of whiskey and beer. He lingered back, wanting to join in but feeling a heaviness settle into his bones and he realizes he’s _exhausted_.

There’s a brief, but soft, touch on his shoulder and he turns, relaxes when he sees Charles’ familiar face. They’d barely had time to share so much as a glance in all the chaos and Arthur feels himself deflate, finally giving into the tired emptiness left behind from a bright flame of fury. Another small wave of relief washes over him to see Charles, unwounded even after the violent battle at the manor.

“You alright, Arthur?” His face seems neutral and unfazed as usual, but Arthur has spent enough time with him now to recognize the slight tension in his brow, the subtle softness in the corners of his eyes. A look reserved seemingly just for Arthur- of quiet worry and soothing support. Arthur’s heart slowed a beat, at ease now with everything having quieted down- at least for the moment- and Jack being returned and Charles’ pacifying presence back at his side.

“Better now,” he nods his head towards the reunion at the campfire. Charles follows his gaze with a soft _hm._

“You should get some rest,” he looks back at Arthur and there’s a glint of firelight dancing in his eyes. Arthur feels heavy as he nods. He looks around, realizing the camp has finally settled and unpacked in Shady Belle and he’s not quite sure where they set up his belongings. Charles, intuitive and perceptive as ever, somehow knowing Arthur’s thoughts just by the tightness in his shoulders or the slightest pinch of his brows. “Second left from the top of the stairs,” he jerks his head towards the run-down house. He mumbles thanks and with a few more parting words and a ‘ _glad to have you back’_ towards a smiling and rosy cheeked Jack, he fades back and into the creaking house.

He pauses in his room and it takes a moment to adjust to the sudden loneliness he feels. Arthur recons this is the most isolated he’d been from the rest of the camp in months upon months. He’d grown accustomed to the view of everyone’s tents and wagons around him, and though he can hear the vague sound of Javier’s guitar and merry voices, they are muffled by the moldy walls of the manor. Now when he gazes out the dull and broken windows, all he sees is the dark of the marsh outside, dimly lit with clusters of fireflies.

He is alone for the first time in a while, which should be a blessing in a life where privacy was rarely afforded, but he find himself longing for something different- a quiet presence nearby that settles the nervous pit in his stomach enough to breathe a little easier, a little safer.

But he is alone under the heavy air of the swamp and oppressive walls crumbling around him as he drifts into a fitful sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk i know this took a while to update i feel like i've kinda lost the direction of this fic and now idk where to take it but i guess we'll see how it goes.
> 
> as always thank you for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in Saint Denis and a realization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was too lazy to write much dialogue so this might be kinda introspective but i'm not sure how well i achieved it because i didn't want to be too repetitive or analytical of character because... there are better fics out there that analyze these characters in a way i just don't really feel like writing out in so many words. i just wanna write what i write and have fun with it without breaking my brain too much, yknow?
> 
> also, over 1000 hits??? i've written over 50k words??? i don't know how this happened???

Saint Denis is a hot and terrible place, stinking of smoke and piss and whatever it is pluming out of the tall chimneys from the factories carving up the skyline, weighing in the air and making everything slightly off-color. It’s loud with the bustling voices of people gossiping or shouting over one another or trying to sell this or that at the market. Hooves clop on paved streets and the trolley clangs and dings and there is so much _everything_ and Arthur thinks that this is probably what hell looked like, personally crafted for him.

He misses clean air, foliage wafting in the breeze and the smell of wildflowers and moss pleasantly filling his head; The crackling of a campfire tucked away in a hidden corner of the forest; The safety found in a makeshift sanctuary with a steady presence nearby, reassuring and comforting in a way he’d never felt when he was alone.

The ringing of a bell, signaling the departure of a trolley, snaps him harshly back into stifling city streets. A crucifix sits heavily in his pocket, taken back after some street kid had stolen it from a nun that was only trying to help him.

Arthur wasn’t quite sure how he’d landed himself here. He’d met Brother Dorkins the day prior and had saved some poor souls from being trafficked and sold off like pieces of meat. This morning he’d stopped by the church the brother mentioned and been greeted by a nun trying to teach some dirt-covered kids how to read. An act of good in the name of God, unappreciated in a world that was more and more apathetic with each passing day- proven minutes later when one of the kids had stolen the crucifix from under the nun’s nose.

He’d found the kid soon enough- being threatened by some grown low-life growling something about a stolen watch. It hadn’t taken much more than a few words and a glare to get the man to back off, and the cross had been returned to Arthur with a timid _‘thanks mister’_ as the boy scampered back to the streets.

He definitely hadn’t expected to see Mrs. Downes, then, nearly unrecognizable from the last time he’d seen her.

He’d definitely hoped to never see her again, and from the panic that had flashed through her eyes, it was a mutual thought.

“Mrs. Downes?”

“No. Not you. Go on, go away-“ she turned, hastily grabbing her skirts as she turned to go in the opposite direction. He faltered behind her, almost reaching out a hand in protest. Should he stop her? There was a pit in his stomach, and he couldn’t quite place what he felt, but guilt was the most distinguishable pang.

Guilt at finding her, shadowed in a corner in the stinking armpit of Saint Denis, offering passing men her _company_. How far she’d fallen- from having a ranch and a husband to becoming a widowed whore selling herself to put food on the table. 

Old words surface in his memory, a bitter and angry glare when he’d walked away from the coughing Mister Downes, hacking up seemingly his lungs but not the debt he owed.

Arthur hadn’t beaten him past the first kick to the ground. He hadn’t beaten him. He hadn’t killed Downes, not directly. It was whatever illness had claimed him. Arthur wasn’t responsible for that death.

But guilt still bloomed in his gut, settling on his senses like the taste of burnt coffee.

She’s gone before he can say anything, can even _think_ of anything to say. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would have done, regardless. Perhaps, if he were a better man, he would have known the right words, the right actions, to make the bitter feeling crawling around in his head go away.

He sees the church just down the street, the vaguely familiar form of the nun he’d met that morning standing near the entrance in discussion with a priest. The crucifix still weighs heavy in his pocket.

She is warm when she greets him, thanking him more than he deserves when he hands her back the cross. She looks at him with that _warmth_ and Arthur almost feels sweaty in it as she calls him the most ‘ _wonderful man’_ and he chuckles, sheepishly, at how he most definitely _isn’t._

But there’s something to be said in the gentle look in her eyes, the wisdom painted in lines on her face, a serenity to her features brought to her by her _faith_. Arthur was sure he was bound to hell and he usually avoided churches, in fear he’d burst into flame if he strayed too close. He’d done one decent thing because all he saw in this city wasn’t nothing but _indecent_ and it had been the right thing to do, but it certainly didn’t make him a wonderful man.

He excuses himself from the scene, shying away from shadow cast by the church and he almost laughs at the poetry of it. Uncomfortable in the shadow of God’s own temple, in the presence of a nun and a priest. He was a man bound for hell-practically made for it- and he definitely did not deserve to be bathed in the praise from a kind woman of God. 

He almost sniggered as he recalled the feelings he’d been suppressing even within himself, the irony of it. Yes, he was bound for hell for all the murdering and the thieving and being all around a terrible man. Even more doomed over the past few months as his heart thrummed and beat heavily in his chest for one man above the rest, in a way the priest would probably have him hang for. He dusts the thought away and stalks off, avoiding other passersby and doing his best not to accidentally shoulder-check someone with his wide frame.

Above him, the sun beat down mercilessly on cobbled streets. High noon in central Saint Denis- people hustled around him on foot, on horse, in carriages and trolleys- the smell of it all stinging his nostrils.

He had one more order of business in the city for the day, an unexpected summoning written on a letter that sat more heavily in his satchel than the crucifix had earlier.

Mary had written to him again and it had sent him spiraling into his own mind more than he’d care to admit.

She’d reached out and he had felt a fool once again, choosing his cleanest outfit and even visiting the barber that morning, before he’d gotten caught up with Brother Dorkins again. He’d shaped his stubbly beard and trimmed his hair back to a respectable length- it had started to brush his shoulders and in the heat of the swamp he absolutely _had_ to get it off his neck before it drove him off the rails.

He passed by a dingy saloon and went in without a second thought- lured by the appeal of a few sips of whisky to soothe the pit that had settled in his stomach once again. First, nervousness at seeing Mary again. Then, guilt at finding Mrs. Downes. Lastly, the strange… irony, at being praised by a nun who held him in regards much higher than he was worth. He briefly considered calling off the rest of his day, distract himself with a bottle and forget the anxiety that always seemed to be biting at his heels these days.

He grunts a word of thanks as he’s passed a drink in exchange for some coins, shoots it back with a resigned sigh.

There was no avoiding it, he had to face it head on.

The thump in his chest when he first sees her, waving down at him from the porch of some fancy hotel, is familiar, but Arthur blinks when he realizes it’s not quite… the same. Where it once filled his chest with something like desire and love it now feels... smaller, like it didn’t hold the same heat in once did. He feels the usual tear in his heart at the life they might’ve had, once upon a time, but he feels none of the longing that used to accompany it. He greets her with the same reverence he always does, feels the weight of their history and the magnitude for which he cares for her but… he realizes it does not consume him the way it used to.

He wonders when that changed, though he knows he probably doesn’t need to think about it too hard to figure it out.

He focuses back on Mary’s face, listens to the soft tone in her voice that only makes him scowl when it brings up her father. She’d called for Arthur, so of course he had come because that’s what he always did. But her father? A callous man who did not deserve her as a daughter, who’d looked down on Arthur like he was the devil himself.

Anger sparks in his chest in a bright and sudden flash. They fight and it was the same fight they always had, about how Arthur wasn’t _good_ enough and how he always made the wrong choices.

Choices, it was always about choices, wasn’t it? Arthur always choosing Dutch, his code, never choosing Mary or the change being with her would mean.

“Be kind to me, Arthur,” she says in a small voice. He bites his retort on tongue, _then be kind to me. _

When they’d been together it had been a flurry of passion, a love born in a fantasy of a better life- an escape for both of them from theirs. Arthur from his duty to Dutch, his life as an outlaw. Mary, from her stifling family and propriety. She had been an ideal to him- a dream of something _better_ than what he had, what he could never achieve without her. A long time ago, it had been everything to Arthur.

Now as he apologized to her for his outburst, it felt hollow.

He helps her track down her father, because _of course he does_. He owes her at least that much, for everything they have shared together. He even tracks down the man that had purchased her mother’s brooch off of her father- though he doesn’t tell her exactly _how_ he’d gotten it back (one punch was hardly anything to report anyway, and it had been all it took to have the brooch shoved into his waiting hand).

But when she asks him to _stay_ , to perhaps go to the theatre, he gives her a sad smile and a soft shake of his head. She meets his eyes and sighs, reaching out a hand which he encloses in his own- so much bigger, hardened with callouses, he fears he will break her porcelain fingers if he squeezed too hard. His mind jumps, unbidden, to strong hands squeezing his own and how… _right_ it had felt- unafraid and bold as if they had always meant to be there.

But now the hand in his just feels like a memory of something he thought he once wanted, and Mary’s mournful eyes search his own.

“Oh, Arthur… is it too late for us?” He looks down at their joined hands, turning hers over and tracing a line over soft skin with his thumb.

“You have to understand… my life, it ain’t gonna change and neither are we. We was never going to work and loving you just… hurt- hurt the both of us and I can’t … love you like that no more. Not like I used to.”

She inhales sharply on the ‘ _used to’_ and deflates, pursing her lips and looking down as if she’d known what the answer would be, but there’s a difference between imagining what one might say and actually hearing it and Arthur’s heart tears at the words, both for himself and for Mary.

In another life, they could’ve been happy together. Arthur truly believes that. But it was not the truth of the paths they were on, the lives they were living.

_Kindness_ appears in his mind again, and it is not Mary’s face that he sees. It is the surprisingly gentle hands full of strength that lift him back up when he falls, that carve figures of his horse or make poultices for his wounds. It is dark eyes as deep as the night sky that express more than words do, gentle touches and precious smiles in the glow of a campfire. Kindnesses given to him in a world and a life where they are barely afforded.

“I know… I know,” she gently reaches up, brushes her fingers delicately across his cheek, “is this goodbye, then?”

“I- I reckon it would be for the best, for both of us,” he tilts his head down, though in relief or in mourning, he’s not sure. Maybe it’s both. She nods, inhaling deeply and squeezing his hands with both of hers. She reaches into a pocket sewn into her dress, procuring a small coin purse. After a bit of digging, she pulls out a familiar ring. A new wave of something bittersweet washes over Arthur as he wordlessly takes it from her outstretched hand.

“I- a part of me will always love you, Arthur Morgan. You know that?” Her voice is like wavering steel, and he smiles softly at her.

“I know. Me too.”

“Alright then,” she withdraws her hands, looks at him again with a melancholy fondness he can’t help but return, after all they’d been through, the love had and lost.  
“Goodbye, Mrs. Linton,” he tips his hat at her as he starts to pull back.

“Goodbye, Mr. Morgan,” she mirrors his smile, bittersweet, as she reaches up and plants a small, soft kiss to his cheek, before retreating. Nearby, a trolley stops and rings its bell for passengers. “You take care of yourself, alright?” she cautions as she moves to the station.

“Only if you do the same,” he waves her off, flashing a last smile as she boards. They look at each other through the window and wave a final time when the trolley continues on its path, away from Arthur.

He exhales and it feels like a weight falling off his chest, but it’s not sad. It’s the same feeling he gets when he finishes a good book- on the rare occasion he actually gets to read- and, in a way, he supposes that it’s just that. The story of him and Mary, finally at its end.

It’s closure in a world where everything could be ripped away suddenly, with no resolution.

There is still a warmth in his chest, however, a familiar thump of his heartbeat that lightens with the excitement of untold stories yet to come.

He rides back to camp feeling more clarity than he’d had in weeks and he’s cursing his foolishness at how _long_ it had taken him to finally pin down the feelings that had been growing, blooming and blossoming in his chest like lilies in the summer.

A part of him whispers its doubts, tells him he’s a bigger fool than he realizes, that admitting his feelings grow beyond friendship to something more, something _deeper_ , is a grave mistake. But his heart beats steadily and it’s surprising and easy to quell the fears- even if he does still feel nervous chills run down his spine.

He just hopes he’s right, hopes the shared looks and touches over the past few weeks and months, even, have been as intentional as he thinks. It’s in the way dark eyes track him across camp, greetings in the mornings with a coffee and a soft smile, hands that reach for him when he needs them. Words and stories shared over the wind when they rode out together or in the smoke as they sat at a fire. Arms that had lifted him out of that damned river when he was half dead. A hidden openness and softness that he’d been lucky enough to even get a glimpse of.

Arthur knew Charles never did anything without having thought it through in his head a half dozen times. Everything he ever did was intentional, and honest- and most of the time, it was _good,_ the right thing to do. For some inexplicable reason, Charles had opened up to Arthur, had showed him kindness upon kindness. In this land, with the law closing in and the grip of civilization tightening around his neck like a noose, Arthur felt he had to savor every scrap of kindness thrown his way. Maybe it was selfish of him. It was definitely selfish of him, but as he crossed through the gloomy swamp- tinting a hazy amber color as the sun began to set- he couldn’t bring himself to care much.

He takes the longer way to camp, passing by a path he knows would be a shortcut to the house in favor of following the road to the main entrance to Shady Belle.

He doesn’t know when, but at some point, he’d learned enough of the guard schedule to know Charles would be standing watch at the run-down stone wall that bordered the old plantation.

Sure enough, a deep voice cuts through the dense air- spotting Arthur before he could distinguish a familiar figure among the trees.

Any sort of bravado he’d built up on the ride to this point vanished, bringing Hercules to a halt in front of Charles, leaning on the dilapidated wall with a rifle swung onto his shoulder, face relaxed and softened with a smirk and a warm greeting.

“You’re looking fresh,” Charles notes, gesturing towards his hair. Arthur’s hand shoots up to his own hair, feeling the freshly cut strands.

“Decided to clean myself up a bit,” he shrugs, suddenly feeling more a fool when he realizes he hadn’t actually… thought of what to say. “Had some… business to attend to.”

“Mm, how’d it go?”

“Well, I didn’t get chased out of the city by lawmen,” he chuckles, smiles at the laugh he draws from Charles’ lips. He swings out of the saddle, digging a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it with a practiced motion. He hands it to Charles after taking a drag, leans on the wall next to him. Hercules steps closer to them, tossing his head towards Arthur with pricked ears. Both men gaze at the young stallion with affection in their eyes and Arthur is powerless to stop himself from reaching into his satchel and digging out a sugar cube, finally satisfying the apparently starving steed. Charles tsks at him, but there’s amusement glinting in his eyes.

“He’ll be the fattest horse in camp if you keep that up.”

“Well, he’ll just have to join Taima on that list, I seen you spoilin’ her too,” Arthur teases, earning a light jab to his ribs, but Charles is smirking when he hands the cigarette back over. He rolls it in his fingers, trying to pick through his thoughts. Charles, as always, is patient next to him- sensing the unsaid words and looking at him with gentle eyes and a slightly raised brow. One of his subtle ways of communicating, asking a question without speaking but not prying an answer out of Arthur unless he’s willing to give it.

Just one of the things that made it so much easier to spend time with Charles than with near anyone else.

“Saw Mary today… I don’t know if I’ve talked much about her, with you,” he starts, bringing up the cigarette and inhaling smoke as the words sat in the air.

“You haven’t,” Charles nods, “but uh, I’ve heard the girls gossiping.” He doesn’t push any further, wary of boundaries they haven’t crossed yet- memories left unshared until now. It makes Arthur’s heart grow even more in his chest.

“So you’ve probably heard… we were together, a long time ago. Almost… might’ve had a life with her, but in the end, I couldn’t change my ways, I suppose. We ended things, for good this time. I realized I jus’ couldn’t… I didn’t love her the way I used to, anymore. No point in holdin’ on to… to this fantasy we had about each other.”

There’s a pause as Charles takes in the new information, mulling it over in the way he does. Arthur pulls more smoke, hands it over as he exhales.

“What changed?” Charles takes a drag, waiting for Arthur to respond. He thinks about it for a minute, mostly just stalling. He knows the answer.

“I- ah, I met you.”

A sudden cough, smoke inhaled the wrong way. Charles doubles over and Arthur’s heart flips in panic- trying to think of a way out. He’s heartened by the fact Charles doesn’t pull away at the confession, remaining in his spot and pounding a fist to his chest. Arthur pats his back awkwardly, fumbling over his words.

“What I mean is- uh, I realized she wasn’t very _kind_ to me and I jus’… you- you _are_ and- I’m a fool, I know, but-“

“Arthur- I-“ a strong hand lands on the arm patting his back, squeezing lightly, his voice wheezing slightly with the strain in his throat. Their eyes meet and Arthur is relieved to see Charles looking as lost as he felt. Somehow, Arthur cracks a grin at the expression.

“What are we doin’, Charles?”

“I- ah- I don’t know, Arthur. What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m sayin’”

“Mm, not sure I do,” he presses his lips together, narrowing his eyes in false confusion. Arthur pouts. This wasn’t going at all how he’d anticipated but then… he didn’t think he’d get this far. Didn’t even know what ‘this’ was.

Whatever it was, it had reduced even the great Charles Smith to a bumbling fool- even just for a split second. Arthur moves his hand across Charles’ shoulder, trailing his fingers over the soft material of Charles’ shirt- a dark maroon colored one he wears less often that looks nearly black in the quickly fading light of the swamp around them as the sun descends below the tree line.

“What I’m sayin’ is … I may be a fool but… you’re _kind…_ to me, and that’s… it’s a rare gift, in this life and I… ah, hell’s bell’s, you know what I’m sayin’…”

“Yeah, I know,” his voice is soft, so low it’s almost nothing more than a breeze in the leaves. Arthur’s heart thumps loudly in his chest, feeling warm all over, “we’re both fools.”

“So you… uh, I wasn’t sure- thought maybe…” The worried whispers from earlier come crawling out of the shadows, prickling under his skin. Soothed almost as soon as they come by Charles’ hand traveling up his arm, landing on the hand still resting on his shoulder. His palm easily covers Arthur’s own and once again he’s struck just by how natural it feels- calloused and scarred but achingly gentle and _familiar_.

“I have spent most of my life alone and I… accepted that. But then I fell in with Dutch, and you… now I can’t imagine my life without you in it. I was alone long enough and I’m done with it, now that I found you.”

For a second, Arthur is _floored_ at the genuine expression etched into Charles’ face, his soft smile, the flyaway hairs framing his jaw, gentle smile curving his lips.

“That's… have you been reading Mary-Beth’s books?”

Charles laughs and it’s the most wonderful sound in Arthur’s ears, he grins in response, watching Charles roll his eyes slightly, gazing back at Arthur with a softness in his eyes. He mumbles something like _‘come here, you fool,’_ and reaches a hand up to Arthur’s collar, pulling him in with no resistance.

Here, hidden in the shadows of a stone wall from times past and cypress trees strung up with moss, they kiss without burden. Crickets and peepers sing their nightly song as the first stars appear, far above them. A cigarette faintly smokes from where it fell onto damp ground, forgotten by hands now clutching the fabric of a shirt, threading into inky black hair.

An easy press of lips, surprisingly soft and tender for two men clearing six feet and made of muscle and scars and pain. A fragile hope finding an anchor, sheltered and safe in the fading light of dusk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also decided to move some things around like- charthur wise, because the world sucks and we need 110% more fluffy content between these two and if i have the ability to write it, why don't i? it basically writes itself with these two, istg. 
> 
> as always, thank you for reading! you can yell at me on my tumblr [here](https://avatarrrkorra.tumblr.com/) and also i drew some charthur stuff on my art blog [here](https://emi-illustrates.tumblr.com/)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shady Belle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this starts out cute and ends up painful

“A man kissed me today.”

“That was me, this morning before you left.”

“No- well yeah, but- I meant another feller, while I was in the city.”

“Oh.”

“Ha- you won’t believe this; his name is Charles too!”

“So you’ve got a type, then.”

“Well, I ain’t too sure about that. He’s French.”

“Seriously?”

“Charles Châtenay, came over from Paris ‘cause they, uh, didn’t appreciate his art, or somethin’ like that. Went to a gallery opening of his a while back and- _hah-_ it was hilarious- bunch of fancy folk got to fightin’ each other ‘cause they recognized their wives and husbands in the paintings- _nude_. Had to get outta there real fast before they all tore his head off-“

“You’re joking.”

“I swear! I helped him to an escape boat today and everythin’… fella stirred up enough trouble to have to _disguise_ himself. Got all done up like a workin’ lady. Some fools on the dock even whistled at him! He did get recognized jus’ before the boat but it weren’t nothin’ I couldn’t take care of-“

_“Hm.”_

“I didn’t kill them!... I think. I dunno, saw him to the boat and left real fast.”

 _“Mhm._ And the kiss?”

“The kiss! He thought he saw someone who might recognize him and grabbed me as a distraction.”

“ _Hm_ … should I be jealous?”

 _“Mmm,_ I dunno, might need a reminder to see which Charles is better at kissin.’”

•••

It didn’t take long for Arthur to decide he did not like the swamp, for many, many reasons. Footprints squelched audibly in the soil that wasn’t quite solid enough to be ground. When birds weren’t singing their hymns in the canopy it was the crickets and the toads and the frogs, tuning their instruments like a band before a show- a rhapsody of baritone croaks and staccato chirps. The soundtrack of nature that flowed as thick and heavy as the water rising up from the river and the earth, unyielding and never-ending.

It was beautiful, the first few nights, still better than the artificial and jarring sounds of civilization that grated on his ears anytime he wandered into Saint Denis, but it didn’t stop Arthur from grasping at the first opportunity to leave Shady Belle for a night to try and find some _quiet_.

Dutch’s continued journey down this rabbit hole he’d thrown them into wasn’t helping either.

Words was all Arthur ever seemed to hear any more. Empty promises of liberty and freedom and _money_ , dreams that could be made real if they all just had a little more _faith_.

Leave it to Charles, though, to see Arthur’s distress in the lines of his shoulders, and to find a solid excuse to leave for more than a few hours at a time. Dutch had made it clear to Arthur that now was not the time to wandering for days on end as he normally did, and each humid morning was greeted with some new scheme in the city- some new tricks to be played on Angelo Bronte or the law. He’d left to help Rains Fall and Eagle flies for just a few days- and though that journey had brought new kinds of weighted tension to the pit in Arthur’s stomach- he had been able to find respite in the ride to and from, the peace of the road and country around him, Hercules breathing steadily beneath. Just one thing missing at his side to truly ease the anxious clutch around his lungs.

Breathing was easier now, though, loping alongside Taima’s spotted hindquarters as they rode north and west, across the Kamassa River onto wonderful, solid, dirt roads. Even Hercules seems to rejoice at familiar footing, a known terrain of tall grasses and spindly clusters of trees. A flash of white and tawny as a doe leaps into some underbrush and the rustling of the leaves and feathers as a cluster of songbirds burst from the verdant shadows.

It’s easier to smile when he glances to his left, the glimmer of an afternoon sun caught in a raven ponytail swinging across familiar broad shoulders.

Arthur couldn’t help but marvel at the ease in which they had slipped into … something _more_. The kiss had been a crack in the dam, a hope that had gained validation on both sides and it felt as though a door had simply just been opened, letting through the flood that had been held back for so long.

Time, place, and circumstance kept them from exploring further, from discovering new hopes, new _wants_ , new permissions to give in to desires he’d barely allowed himself to even imagine. Every day since then had brought a new drama into Arthur’s schedule. Arthur barely found time for himself, these days. Much less time to sit and figure out exactly what they had become.

Something more, but still the same. 

No, in the chaos of the Pinkertons and the new schemes with Bronte and the goddamn _plans_ , they hadn’t had time to sit and figure out exactly what their confession meant.

But if there was one thing Arthur and Charles were both good at, he’d reckon it was probably stealing- due to the nature of their lives, of course- and they took full advantage of those learned skills. Thieved moments in the cover of dark during a night watch, a shared meal in the gazebo held together more by vines and lichen than not, an extended smoke break on the far side of the sinking manor. That, or hunting, setting traps for a convenient reason to be together. Saddles placed deliberately together, a bundle of arrows brought up for the ammunition stock, a trail leading to a rare moment of privacy and gentle affection. 

It left Arthur feeling torn in a way he never could have imagined. He’d spent so long living as a ruffian and cold-hearted killer- shut off from anything _good_ and _familiar_ after the losses he had endured. Loving Mary had been one thing, an attraction to an _ideal_ and a fantasy both found comfort in, but ultimately hadn’t believed in enough to change. Losing Eliza and Isaac had been a whole other thing, had shuttered his heart and built up brick and mortar walls around it, finding solace only in what family he had left- Hosea, Dutch, the gang. He threw himself completely into his role Dutch’s constant shadow, the looming figure at his shoulder. He’d fought and killed and robbed for so long, Arthur was sure that would be the only thing he’d know until his inevitable, violent death. In a way it was comforting, the blind loyalty to the man who’d taken him in, shaped and molded him into the man he is today- or at least, the man he was certain he was until just recently.

But now there was Charles, who saw through the brick and the layers of dust and grime and blood and saw someone deserving of _kindness_ and for the first time in years, Arthur felt _seen_. Charles looked at him and didn’t immediately think _big, intimidating, killer, brute, fool._ Charles looked at him instead like how the sun greets the wild meadows, Arthur gravitating towards his warmth like a flower starved of light.

And Arthur didn’t deserve it, but nothing was stopping him from selfishly accepting everything Charles seemed to so willingly give him. Especially when everything else that had held him together for so long, that had formed the very ground he walked on, was falling apart.

The horses move steadily onwards, sun beating down as it always had, and it always would.

But the nervous pit in Arthur’s stomach still shudders, mind wandering as sparrows flit above the trees.

Day after day, the world was changing, and they were long past the point of denying it. Telephone wires cut through open skies, forests dwindle in size, and the onward march of civilization progresses. The life that Dutch had been preaching, _promising_ , slips further and further as they all but sprint the opposite direction. Here, far from the land Arthur longs for, he feels as if his time is running out as the world keeps turning and changing- pushing them all into the looming jaws of the law, the Pinkertons, Cornwall, all the enemies they’d made.

And yet Dutch keeps steaming ahead, blind to the change around him. Danger approaches them every day and a voice in Arthur’s head is screaming at him to _protect_ \- to save his found family, Tilly and the girls, Sadie who’d become someone new entirely, John- his idiot brother- and the life he could build with Abigail and Jack if he had the chance and the brain cells to pull it together. A _chance_ , though, that was something they all deserved. A chance at a better life, when this life of outlaws and cowboys takes its final bow. Some of them deserve to make it out, and Arthur knows he would easily die if it meant they’d all get to live. They’d already lost so much, Sean’s sudden death still so fresh and jarring. Even when Arthur’s own life had been threatened, tied up by the O’Driscolls in a dingy cellar, all he’d longed for was for his family to be spared.

And Charles. Especially Charles, who deserves so much more than Arthur could ever hope to give. Charles, who smiled so gently and rarely it was worth more to Arthur than all the gold in the world, who cared so deeply and fiercely in that quiet way of his it sent Arthur on a loop.

Charles, whose steady grasp on Arthur had seemed to shake his whole world, turn it on its head. Something that should be jarring for Arthur, something that meant _change_ , something he thought he’d never see- a hope for a future. A life after this one.

He didn’t necessarily want to change, still longed for the days _before_ when the West was still an open land of freedom and opportunity and possibility. When Dutch’s words had inspired him and pointed him forwards in life, to a code he’d lived and killed by. But Dutch was a different man, now. This Dutch was beginning to look like someone Arthur did not recognize, with a wild gleam in his eyes and a sharper bite to his words as he repeated himself over and over- a mantra of _‘one more big score, a little more faith.’_

For as long as he could remember, Arthur thought that he would most likely die along with the dreams of the truly wild west- just another outlaw, name lost to old wanted posters scattered in the wind.

But Charles rode beside him now, sure ground beneath their horses’ hooves, and for the first time, Arthur reckoned he might find it in himself to change, after all. 

Reckoned he wouldn’t mind finding a future, if there was one at the end of this troublesome road they were on, so long as Charles was in it.

•••

Charles was sure Arthur was doing it on purpose- like they’d finally confessed their feelings and it had opened a door for Arthur to go out of his way to catch Charles’ attention- not that there was ever a time Charles’ eyes didn’t automatically glance over in his direction on any given day _anyways_ \- no, now Arthur had to take it a step further.

The _tease._ Acting shy under the shine of Charles’ affection, believing he’s undeserving of it, thinking himself an ‘ugly bastard’ as if he could ever be- blue eyes bright like the summer’s day over a lush prairie.

Charles prided himself on his neutral demeanor, most of the time. He’d learned to school his expression, hide his emotions, present himself as a stoic pillar of strength and competence- and it had served him well for the twenty odd years he’d been running on his own. Uncle had called him a ‘taciturn’ man, once- big and tough and dumb. And he’d been fine with that, having been called worse things, and knowing for certain he may be big and tough- but he wasn’t dumb.

No, Charles was who he was- a huntsman and survivalist, discipline and strength forged in years of running on his own. Years he wouldn’t have lived through if he was something so simple as ‘dumb.’

But Arthur just had to be who _he_ was- and suddenly that included traipsing around camp during the hotter and muggier hours of the day in jeans clinging to his hips over nothing but his union suit, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and collar stretched to its limits over broad shoulders, fabric pulled taught across corded muscle. The moisture in the air stuck to his skin, leaving him dewy and glistening in the hazy sunlight. 

How could Charles not feel like a fool, staring definitely a moment too long at a droplet of sweat trailing down Arthur’s neck, feeling nothing but dumbstruck.

And it’s not a new feeling, at this point, especially now that Charles knew he didn’t need to feel any guilt about it.

Just a few nights ago Arthur had come from his room dressed in his finest jacket and trousers- hair parted and swept back with pomade, shorter now he’d finally gone to the barber. Even his beard had been trimmed, cleaned up enough to show off the sharp angle of his jaw and the planes of his chiseled cheekbones. And if that hadn’t been hard enough for Charles to ignore- to act as if it _didn’t_ affect him straight down to his bones- Arthur had ridden in a few short nights later alongside Javier, Strauss, and Trelawney, dripping wet and heavy with the bags full of cash and gold stolen off some riverboat card tournament. A job on a boat gone right- a strange sort of déjà vu had settled on most of them, quickly swept away by the victory.

A heated shiver runs down Charles’ spine, remembering that night- the relieved grin on Arthur’s face, the tailored 3 piece suit and a clean shaven jaw, possibly the most bare skin Charles had seen on the man’s face- smooth and glistening in the damp air, not fully dry from an impromptu swim through the bay. The gang had celebrated with drinks that night, and Charles had tried his hardest to stay for as long as was socially acceptable before quietly retreating from the jolly fireside with a pointed look in Arthur’s direction, a heated drag of eyes across a clean-shaven jaw.

Later, Charles had marveled at how much _younger_ and happier Arthur looked- relaxed shoulders and flushed cheeks, easy smile on his face from the thrill of a successful robbery and something else-

Arthur laughs at something from where he’s in conversation with Mary-Beth and Charles blinks, jolted back into the moment, to the table he’s sitting at in the middle of camp. He clears his throat, looks back down at his hands. Hadn’t he been talking to someone?

“Charles, still with me?” Sadie appears in his vision, cocking her head at him with an eyebrow raised. Her gaze turns towards the sound of Arthur’s voice, turns back to Charles and there’s a very sudden and specific heat on the back of his neck now as he watches her put pieces together.

There’s a beat where neither of them say anything. Charles keeps his face even, tries to will the heat spreading towards his cheeks away, suddenly thankful for his darker complexion. Surely she won’t notice the way he flushes from the ears down.

“Did you hear _anythin_ ’ I said?” She asks, a calculating gleam in her eye. A muscle in Charles’ jaw twitches, knowing he can’t lie to her, knowing she would see straight through him if he dared try. She huffs a laugh at his non-response, glancing back towards Arthur.

He should definitely say something, especially given the knowing arch of her brow. He trusts her, more than most of the others. They were both still relative outsiders in the Van der Linde gang, still new and not as ingrained in the family as some of the others, and there was a kind of solidarity had brought them together. He clears his throat, trying to form the right combination of words, push through the sudden lump in his throat because she _knows_.

“You don’t need to worry, Charles,” Sadie starts, turning back to him, “most these folks are too wrapped up in themselves to notice how you an’ Arthur are always runnin’ off together.”

“I- I don’t-“

“He’s a good man, that Arthur. Reminds me of my Jakey sometimes,” her gaze falls for a second, lost in a ghost of a memory, “he used to look at me like nothin’ else in the world mattered. Kinda how you looked, just now.”

Charles exhales a puff of air, something between a laugh and a worried _hm_.

“When did you figure it out?” He finally asks, voice even but quiet enough so it stays between them.

“Reckon I figured it out long before either of you fools did,” she laughs, “though you’re definitely more subtle than he is.”

This time when he exhales, it is in a huff of laughter. Looking back at Arthur just in time to see blue eyes flit away from him, too fast to be casual. He wonders if Sadie had seen him looking too. Probably, if her growing smirk is anything to go by.

“You don’t gotta worry about me, I won’t say nothin’ to no one,” she says, and there’s a heavier weight in her words that makes Charles sigh because he had worried, for a second. Something like this could damn him in this world even more than his heritage and his skin color already had. 

“I know, Sadie. Thank you,” he smiles, a small and easy thing. Though perhaps unexpected, they’d formed some kind of friendship between the two of them- a small respite when tensions in camp grew thicker with each passing day, the uncertainty of their lives and the path Dutch was leading them down continued on, weighing on everyone’s shoulders except for Dutch himself, apparently. And Micah, of course. It had weighed especially heavy on Arthur, tension shifting his posture after each conversation with their supposedly unflappable leader- after each venture into the city brought more misery and chaos, etched into the lines of Arthur’s stupid, handsome, sun-kissed face.

Charles risks another glance back at the man, freezing when he locks onto those familiar eyes. It’s a subconscious thing, really, the smile that curves the corners of Charles’ lips as Arthur’s eyes dip down and then back up in the space of a heartbeat. When Arthur’s eyes meet his again, he has the audacity to _wink_ and it takes practiced self-control for Charles to sit _still_ and remain neutral, even though his heart skips a beat or two.

Damn bastard knew exactly what he was doing, wearing that getup, standing so brazenly in Charles’ view, yet so far out of his reach.

The damn tease. Charles huffs, turning away and mulling schemes in his head because _two could definitely play at this game._

Sadie, having observed this interaction quietly from her spot on the table, sniggers underneath the rim of her hat at the pair of them.

•••

Rainstorms in the bayou were something else entirely- pouring down in buckets so thick Arthur could barely see past the ears of his horse in one moment and suddenly so sunny in the next- evaporating the freshly fallen water until the fog was so thick he _still_ couldn’t see past the ears of his horse.

These days, a lot of things in his life were like that.

One moment of relative peace, catching up with Mrs. Adler and grinning at her eagerness to go robbing with them, planning a robbery with Dutch with a shine in his eyes is _just_ familiar enough that Arthur thinks maybe, if they’re lucky, they can pull it off and come out of the mess they’ve found themselves in.

The next moment, Mary-Beth is screaming, and poor Kieran Duffy is falling- in two pieces- as O’Driscoll’s burst from the tree line, bullets flying and whizzing into the crumbling façade of the manor they’d been calling ‘safe.’

He’s moving before he knows it, ducking behind a pillar and pulling out his pistol. Fires one shot, two. The third finds its target and Arthur curses, the distance too great between him on the second story and his enemies, advancing and ducking from cover to cover.

Get closer to the ground, closer to the shooting. Instincts forged in years of fighting and shooting move him, sprinting into the house and down the creaking stairs, shoving open the front doors as the women rush indoors. Bullets whizz and crack and Abigail is covering a trembling Jack, pushing them both inside, and a wave of _red_ floods Arthur, the need to _protect_.

He ducks behind a pillar, shoots. Makes stock of what’s ahead of him.

He needs to get his hands on a rifle, pistol shooting lame cover at the advancing fire.

He sprints forward, pushing to the front lines, stopping only to aim and shoot before a bullet can find him.

He tries not to look at Kieran’s face, the dead stare of eyes gouged away.

He finds Charles, already at their first line of defense.

“Any more casualties?” He shouts, voice cracking above the booming gunshots, as he slides into position behind the wall Charles uses as cover. Some O’Driscolls have wandered close enough to be in range for his pistol- taken out before they can even point and shoot.

“Just Kieran-“ more shots, flying in both directions, there’s a spray of dirt as a bullet lands on the ground just a ways away from their position- “for the moment.” Arthur grabs a rifle, leaning against a nearby crate and normally reserved for this purpose exactly. Men fall where they stood, guns clattering beside bodies sprawled on makeshift barricades.

There’s a loud clambering and screaming of horses as a wagon drives in and more chaos descends, John’s cracked voice shouting as shrapnel flies. They fall back to the house, Dutch’s voice booming in the fray- commanding and loud like a general of war. And perhaps, Arthur thinks, bitterly, it is.

Arthur’s left shoulder still twinges as he shoots out the windows in the back of the house- and maybe he feels a small sense of rarely afforded revenge at each fallen O’Driscoll. Damned for what they had put him through. He only vaguely listens as there’s more shouting of familiar voices- ‘ _Is everyone accounted for??’ ‘I think! I don’t know!’-_

And then there’s a different scream, newer but known- something vicious like the sound of a yowling panther and Arthur leaps out the window towards Mrs. Adler’s voice.

Not that she needed assistance, seething panther as she is- covered in the blood of her enemies and the wild rage of a storm brewing behind her eyes, blood splattered on her skin and hair.

Nothing like the woman they’d picked up all that time ago, shivering in the snow to a backdrop of a burning building- remains of her previous life falling in ashes among snowflakes and ice.

And then he’s following her, blazing in the wake of her fury, towards the sound of more gunshots.

There’s more of them coming from the swamps and Arthur curses at the seemingly endless supply of _O’Driscolls_ and where does Colm even find this many men? This many hands and guns willing to die for what? Money?

Sadie storms ahead back towards the manor, and he’s half watching her back- out of habit and a new sense of _protection_ because he didn’t want to lose her too, after all that had happened- half watching the waterways as yet another boat full of O’Driscoll’s rows in.

He doesn’t see the shadow approaching- hidden in the shade cast by shot-up mass of the house- until there’s a glint of a gun pointed at him and he’s turned the other way, no way he can move _fast_ enough to protect himself-

A crash and a blur of blue and black and red as Charles bursts through the window in a spray of glass, sending a machete into the attacker’s chest in a vicious spurt of blood and their eyes meet over the space of a heartbeat, a silent _‘thank you’_ to an _‘I got your back’_ before more men appear around the corner and there’s more fire, gunpowder in the air, mud and blood and wood splintering all around them.

Sadie surges forward, bellowing as she fires at backs that are finally retreating and he almost marvels at it- the force that drives her something he can scarcely understand.

Charles sends off a few more shots as the firing dwindles down, O’Driscoll’s lying dead around them or scampering back to the bushes from where they came. He turns to Arthur, finally, with an ‘ _are you okay?’_ that has Arthur nodding dumbly. He’s covered in blood but most of it doesn’t look to be his own, fortunately, and Arthur breathes a small sigh of relief as they regroup.

Sadie’s hurricane fury as she drew blood from the names that took her husband, her life, her love from her floats to his mind again and he thinks, perhaps he can understand the forces that drive her after all.

At the end of it, Kieran Duffy lays dead on the ground at their feet as arrangements to bury him are made and another loss settles heavy on Arthur’s shoulders.

Poor kid. He’d only just start to come out of his shell and after that fishing trip- the naked man and the legendary bluegill- Arthur had begun to wonder at who Kieran Duffy was under the dust and the horsehair. He’d begun to wonder who Kieran could become.

Now, like Sean, and Mac, Davey, Jenny, he’d never know.

So much life lost in so little time, so many lives under constant threat still. How close had a bullet come to any of them today? How close to the women? To Jack?

To Charles?

_Protect, save, preserve._

If only Dutch would stop and _listen._ There had to be a way out that didn’t involve more death and suffering. Some way to save those that needed saving.

He could not save Kieran, although the boy had saved his life. Just like he could not save the rest of those lost along the way.

He wonders what good he is to anyone if he can’t protect his people. There’s a throbbing ache in his shoulder, still not completely right, and flared up again with the stress of their ambush.

And even after all that, the day was not over yet. Dutch was waiting for him in the city, ready for the next big score. A promise from Angelo Bronte that made Arthur huff in indignance because he’d trust a hungry animal not to eat him more than he’d trust _Angelo Bronte,_ but Dutch seemed to think this was a good idea, so what does Arthur know?

Hercules huffs, hooves squelching in the mud, ears tilted back in Arthur’s direction- undoubtedly sensing his rider’s unease as they cross an iron bridge onto cobbled streets.

“I know, boy,” he pats a golden shoulder, glistening with sweat from the humidity and the panic from the ambush. Arthur sighs, tries to soothe his horse- the wonderful stallion that had brought a smile to Arthur’s face after even every foiled job, every shootout, every escape. He’d adapted to Arthur’s lifestyle with surprising ease, barely flinched at the crack of a gunshot even when it was pointed in his direction and- with some stroke of luck- hadn’t been victim to any stray bullets. He knew when to run from danger and when he was needed back, knew the shifts in Arthur’s weight when the tension in the air rises before a sprinting gallop.

Knew now, how the nervous pit in Arthur’s gut had spread even into his bones with every step in Dutch’s wake. 

Soft murmurs and gentle pats didn’t soothe the stallion’s nervous tension, still huffing when Arthur hitched him somewhere safe as he swallowed the lump in his throat and the worry in his bones. Dutch was waiting.

Just one more job, one more score, a little more faith.

•••

Charles couldn’t remember a time of his life that had gone by faster than the past few weeks had been for the gang. Sean, the attack on the Braithwaite place, Jack’s _kidnapping-_

Even the attack from the O’Driscoll’s quickly fades as the latest trauma they face when Arthur, Dutch and Lenny ride back into camp mere hours later, covered in bruises and gunpowder and blood. Miss Grimshaw and Hosea fuss over Dutch immediately, whisking him away to his room as soon as he slips off the wagon.

Lenny has a dark look on his face, lines ill-fitting on his high cheekbones and youthful eyes. And Arthur…

Arthur looked defeated, battered, scraped up, a frustrated scowl carving up his face in deep canyons Charles ached to smooth out. There was a dullness in his eyes that Charles didn’t want to recognize, lost and angry and _tired._

“What happened?”

Arthur shakes his head with a graveled sigh, motions for Charles to follow him into the house and up the stairs. They pass by Dutch’s closed room, muffled voices behind moldy wooden doors.

“Can you uh, put some of that salve you made for bruisin’? On my back?” Arthur asks once they’re in the relative privacy of his room. He roots through his trunk of belongings, procuring a small jar Charles had given him at some point, a familiar paste of yarrow that he’d found himself making a lot of, recently.

“Of course.”

There’s less shyness now, in the way Arthur quickly opens his shirt and union suit, dropped to reveal the mess of bruises on his back. Less shyness still, in the way Charles traces an easy hand down the curve of Arthur’s shoulders. This was not a new position for either of them, patching up scrapes and bruises and gunshot wounds- a pang of something like bitterness pierces Charles for a second, wondering if they’ll ever have a time when their bodies _aren’t_ constantly covered in a patchwork of wounds and batteries, new and old and of various stages of healing or permanence. There hadn’t been much time in the days since their arrival in Shady Belle- or enough privacy, really- for them to take their time exploring each bump and divot, every scar, every secret soft spot- to map and _know_ each other the way Charles longed for, the same way he knew Arthur did too.

With everything brewing, pots boiling over in every direction, danger appearing each day as surely as the sun, there just hadn’t been enough time for them to just _be._

Charles works in silence, sitting behind Arthur on the side of the rickety bed, lightly massaging the paste into tender skin and rubbing gentle circles into tense, corded muscle.

“Dutch wants to go to Tahiti now.”

“Tahiti?”

“Somewhere in the Pacific.”

“Hm.”

“The trolley station was a trap. Bronte- that _snake_ … set us up. Seemed like the entire police force of Saint Denis came to greet us. We hijacked one of those trolleys to get away, but it crashed and there were cops _everywhere_ … barely made it out, all for a grand fifty-somethin’ dollars.”

“I still don’t understand why Dutch trusted him… especially after he took Jack.”

“I don’t know… I feel like- _agh-_ I don’t know. I jus’ don’t know _anythin’_ anymore-“

He sighs, chin dropping down into his chest. Charles finishes covering the last of the bruising, lifts the union suit back up as Arthur slides his arms back in. Charles drops his head forward, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s better shoulder before resting his chin on it.

“I’m gettin’ worried, Charles.”

“I know. Me too.”

“Dutch is… We’re goin’ after the bank next.”

“Still? After what just happened?”

“Dutch says _especially_ because of all that. Hosea agrees, apparently.”

_“Hm.”_

A beat of silence in the room. The swamp sings its constant opera of bellowing gators and whooping cranes and crooning bullfrogs, fills the empty space between words. Charles focuses on the sounds of Arthur breathing, feeling the rise and fall of lungs when Arthur leans back into his touch, hands coming to rest together around Arthur’s middle.

“You ever think about what you’ll do, after?”

“After?”

“C’mon Charles, we both know all this…. The gang, this way of livin… it’s gonna be over soon.”

“Hm. Have you thought about it?”

“Aw Charles, I don’t fully expect to make it out of this mess. Reckon all I can do is just make sure everyone I care about does.”

“Oh, Arthur-“

Charles tightens his grip, pressing himself closer to the other while he gathers his words, reins in his heartache because there’s a note of resignation in Arthur’s voice and it breaks Charles’ heart. He knew the man would do just about anything to protect his family. And beyond that… he didn’t believe he was worth anything, wasn’t worthy of getting out and having a life, _after_.

“I do. I expect you to get out of this mess, Arthur. Whatever happens I-“

He shifts, holds tighter, takes a breath. Horsehair and leather and gunpowder, the distinct smell of yarrow, a faint trace of tobacco. Something familiar, reminding him of a memory lost long ago, something like _home._

“When Dutch picked me up, I thought, finally, I’d found something I could… find purpose in, to be a part of something besides just myself, but he… he’s not the reason I stayed. Everyone here, mostly, accepts me, and I’ve never really… belonged anywhere. And I thought, maybe, I could find belonging here, with the _Van der Linde gang_ but... it’s just you, Arthur. I just want to belong wherever you are. Whatever happens after this, good or bad, I just… I don’t know about the future, I just know I want to be by your side, as long as you’ll have me.”

“Charles…”

Arthur makes a move to turn, an effort fruitless in the steady grip of Charles’ unmoving arms.

“You are more than what Dutch has made you, Arthur. You are more than the bounty on your head, and you deserve a life outside of this one, no matter what happens. You’re a good man, Arthur Morgan.”

He finally releases his grip, lets Arthur spin around, and the look he finds leaves him- once again- feeling _dumb_.

It’s shock, mostly- the way Arthur’s brows tilt upwards just so and the open vulnerability in his eyes, as if he’s shocked to hear the words out of Charles’ lips.

He knew Arthur didn’t think he was deserving of anything _good._ It was a conversation they’d had dozens of times in dozens of different ways. It was in the self-deprecating humor and the sad look in his eyes and the way he deflected every kind word and action given to him.

Charles knew Arthur did not think himself a good man, but Charles knew better- knew the gentleness hidden in everything Arthur did- the quiet awe and respect he held towards the nature, the fierce loyalty and sense of duty that tied him to the gang- to his _family_ \- even when they hardly seemed to appreciate a single moment of it.

But Charles appreciated it, he saw the bits of good that were masked so well behind steel and gunpowder, and he would be damned if he did not spend every day they had left trying to make Arthur see that within himself.

If anyone deserved to get out, to find happiness and peace and _quiet_ after all of this, it was Arthur Morgan.

Words pile up into a lump in Charles’ throat and he can’t spit them out, can’t bear the weight of their meaning and the way his heart beats so _big_ in his chest. He just leans forward, presses a soft kiss to Arthur’s lips, hopes it’s enough to convey every unsaid confession stuck in his chest.

•••

The gentle rustling of leaves, dancing in a gentle breeze beneath the soft blues and pinks of sunrise. Taima’s low nicker when he greets her in the mornings, velvet nose lipping his palm and the offered oatcake. A steaming cup of minty tea in the evenings, when the chill of the night has settled in the air. Eyes like endless skies above wild meadows, the shy smile that lit up like the sun, a laugh rarer and more precious than all the gold buried in the earth.

These are the things Charles conjures in his mind when everything goes to hell. He clings to the quiet moments of _peace_ that he catalogued away for times of _chaos._ Times where he’d even dared to think maybe, he’d know the meaning of happiness for once.

These are the things he thinks of when ‘happiness’ becomes something far away, distant and unreachable, overshadowed by raging blasts, shouts and bellows ringing in the air, bullets flying in every direction.

•••

Hosea collapses in a heap of blood and dust, and something snaps.

Arthur had watched his own birth father hang a long time ago and had felt nothing but cold hollowness as he picked up the dead man’s fallen hat and _ran._

Hollowness echoes in his head again now, as he watches Hosea go down, more of a father than Lyle Morgan had ever been, but it’s different than it had been all those years ago. The man Arthur had loved more than Dutch, more than anyone. The man who had taught everything, _everything_ , to Arthur. Dutch had shaped and molded him into a veteran outlaw, Hosea had grown and nurtured him in every other aspect.

There’s screaming around him, John is shouting and his voice is cracking and there’s noise everywhere, but it’s muted by the ringing in between Arthur’s ears when he tears his eyes away from one paternal figure to the next.

Dutch is shrouded in shadows, growing darker and spreading like the pool of blood gathering on grimy cobblestone.

Something has snapped, broken beyond recognition. There’s a jolt of fear in his spine when Dutch does not meet his eyes, roars the next words after a broken whisper of Hosea’s name, shadows looming in each corner, and Arthur wonders if he’s lost more than he can realize right now, stuck in ticking of an alarm bell and the fight for their lives.

And then Lenny falls and it’s sudden and violent and _wrong._ His killers do not get a chance to revel in their victory before they are bleeding out on the rooftop as well.

Arthur nearly collapses to his knees at the young man’s side, trembling hand moving to clutch at the bleeding holes in his unmoving chest.

More death, another life torn away. Another person Arthur could not _protect._

Hosea.

Now Lenny.

John was gone too, dead or arrested- all the same in the end.

The ground Arthur had walked for so long was crumbling beneath his feet and the shadows around him deepen and he wonders how long it’ll be before he’s falling, too.

But then Charles is there, solid and present and _alive_ , his hand moves to Lenny’s unseeing eyes, gently sliding his lids closed, letting him rest. The other clutches Arthur’s arm, a tether keeping him from the grief that so threatened to swallow him whole.

“ _There’s nothing we can do for him! We have to move!”_ And there’s shapes running by, and Arthur knows he should move, should get up and _go_. But his legs refuse to unfold, the will to keep sprinting seemingly lost somewhere in the dust and the blood and the gunpowder, and he wonders if it would have been better if he was lying there instead of poor Lenny, who had so much life left in him.

Something pulls him up and he follows, numbly, as he’s tugged back into a mad dash. It’s Charles’ familiar raven hair and broad shoulders that he finds when he finally looks up, when he gathers whatever remains of himself from where he’d been torn open by losses he didn’t have the time to truly process. It’s the ferocity and intensity in Charles’ brief glance that pulls him back to the surface, regrouping his thoughts as they climb and scramble to some hidden shelter where they can hide long enough to _think_ for more than a second without someone dying.

There’d been too much of that, already.

•••

“I got it! A boat.”

Arthur doesn’t, but Charles can see the scoff he wants to let out in the way his nose flares, eyebrows lifting just so.

It takes a lot of effort for Charles not to scoff, either.

Dutch moves towards Charles, taps his shoulders a few times, and Charles moves off the chair because _of course_ the only chair in the room has to be given to their superior leader.

He eyes Dutch, spouting off the new plan with a wave of his arms and a frown in his brows, and wonders how long it’s been since Dutch wasn’t the one Charles was loyal to by a long shot.

He could have left the gang weeks ago, and no one would’ve questioned it or been surprised, but it wasn’t an option. It could never be an option. 

Arthur’s voice is gruff when he speaks, thicker than usual- the only sign of the hurt in his eyes, of the grief and the fear thrumming in his veins.

The room goes quiet and the heavy, crushing weight of what just happened settles over them like a blanket of snow in the mountains- cold and unyielding.

Lenny, so young and bright. Smarter than most of the men combined, wittier and braver than he had any right to be. Charles hadn't been that close to Lenny, but his loss is a keen pain in his chest nonetheless.

Hosea had been a good man, in spite of it all, and he was one Charles had found himself respecting since they’d met. Something in the way he carried himself, the lines on his face telling of the hardships he’d lived through, wisdom in the tones of his voice. He’d spent some time with Hosea, a given in the shared space of their lives, had found more in common than he’d thought.

Medicinal plants, hunting, value found in hard work, the benefits of tea and a good book, Arthur.

Charles heaves himself to his feet and walks towards the corner Arthur has planted himself in, opposite Dutch on his makeshift throne. He’s sure that several pairs of eyes watch him cross the wooden floorboards, creaking so _loudly_ in the sudden stillness it almost makes Charles regret moving at all.

Until he’s sitting with his back leaning against the same wall Arthur is on, not as close as he’d like to be but enough that he hopes Arthur understands his intention.

_I’m with you._

•••

“I’ll deal with them.”

Charles tenses, eyes flicking from the lawmen ahead, Dutch in front of him, Arthur besides.

“What? How?”

There’s a twitch of the muscles in his brow, Arthur notices, and he recognizes the look of sheer determination on the man’s face. His heartbeat feels choked, stuck somewhere in his throat.

“I can’t kill ‘em all silently… so, when they chase me, you go the other way.”

Arthur reaches a hand forward, grasping onto Charles’ sleeve in a panicked grip.

“What are you talking about?” It’s Dutch, asking, but Arthur is staring at Charles.

“You heard what I said.”

He looks back at Arthur, so fierce, warm, _protective,_ and the blue eyes that meet his are broken, torn apart, pleading because _I can’t lose you too._

“Get out of here, _get safe_.” And then a familiar hand grips Arthur’s arm with a final squeeze and then he’s gone, walking straight into the open with tightly coiled control until the guards see him and then he’s off, as quick as the wind and the shadows he disappears into, followed by a chorus of ‘ _hey you! Stop!’_

“That- is one of the most beautiful acts I ever saw,” Dutch says before leading them all onwards, towards the boat that promised their escape.

Arthur follows, glancing over his shoulder, feeling like he was walking away from a piece of himself.

The pain that had been growing somewhere in his chest squeezed, threatening to choke him as his heart beat so _loud_ in his ears.

It doesn’t occur to him until later- that he never quite told Charles everything he meant to Arthur- and that now he wasn’t sure he’d ever get the chance. Surely Charles had gotten away from the city, but there’s no way for Arthur to know of his fate. Regret bites at his heels because he _should have told him._

The storm whipped and lashed around him, men screaming and lights blurring in the wild rain. Arthur found himself clinging to a rail, waving and calling with a cracked voice towards the light drifting further away from him, quickly disappearing into the roiling waves. He threw his body into the raging sea, following the only guiding star he’d known his entire life. Dutch’s calls were distant, the light of the lifeboat flickering in and out as waves tossed Arthur around, chest _burning_ as he mindlessly tried to swim, to _survive_ , because this couldn’t be the end of his story- -left behind on a sinking ship, no lifesaving tether in sight, forgotten in the endless darkness of storm and sea- not when he had only just begun to hope for a life worth surviving _for_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bruh. so sad. it gets so. so. sad.  
> as a fic writer, i have the capability to fix it, but also- i guess i love suffering.  
> I plan to stick mostly to canon until the end, bascially. but man like... canon is just so, so sad.  
> i promise this will still be a fix it fic in the end but its likely the next chapter (or two) is gonna be pretty sad


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lakay

A lone figure rides into Shady Belle that night, the _only one_ to come back from the city still alight with patrols and whistles and eyes around every corner. Everyone who is left waits, standing in the crumbling remains of something that used to stand tall and proud, now left riddled in grime and bullet holes.

There is work to be done, news that needs to be said, things that need doing and Charles feels the weight of it all settle on his chest.

He has not been with these people that long- he should not be the one to tell them what they have lost. But he does it anyway, because he’s the only one who can.

Abigail chokes out a sob, immediately clutching Jack close to her body, when Charles tells them about John’s arrest. Miss Grimshaw’s breath stutters, hands flying to her chest and something to lean against, when he tells them about Hosea, when he tells them about Lenny. Heads fall and there’s a collective sigh of _loss_ and _defeat_ , when he tells them about Dutch and the rest boarding a boat as the only escape and they’ll be back in a few weeks if all went well. Uncle is uncharacteristically quiet as he slumps into the nearest seat, followed quickly by Pearson. Tilly and Mary-Beth turn to Abigail’s side, silent tears and weak reassurances. Swanson looks like a ghost had passed through him.

There’s a beat of stillness in which the missing presences weigh on all of them, an air of ‘ _what do we do now?’_

It’s Sadie that finally speaks up, after, reminds them all of the law scouring the land for them and the fact that it would be wise to _move_.

And then there’s more work to be done, packing to do, a new camp to find, bodies to recover and bury. Charles takes it all abreast, accepting the weight and putting in the work to get everyone to safety. He keeps himself moving, his hands busy, mind solely focused on the next immediate task at hand.

He hadn’t known anything like family in a long time, but there was a sense of duty that kept him upright and _working_ alongside Sadie, pulling together the broken pieces of this group of outcasts, vagrants, and outlaws that had formed their own family and accepted him into it.

These were Arthur’s people, the ones he gave everything for, every day of his life for two decades. Charles sees the blue of his eyes behind his lids every time he stops for a second and knows, _knows_ , that he must do this. Must protect the family Arthur has given everything for, must preserve something that Arthur can come back for.

Because he had to come back. Charles had left him only because it had been the _only choice_ to get them all to safety- not just to turn his back on the one person that made him feel as if his heart was for more than just pumping blood through his veins just to never see that person again.

Charles throws himself into work, compartmentalizes what he can and is always at war with the terrible little voice in the back of his head saying that Arthur won’t come back, that Dutch has led them to their deaths or that they’ve been abandoned completely. He can’t listen to them when there is _work to be done_ and someone- Charles, always- has to do it. As long as he’s moving, those thoughts stay at bay before they have the chance to drag him down into the murky depths of despair.

Spirits are low when the last wagon pulls into Lakay, everyone shell-shocked and scared- lost without Dutch to inspire them with words of freedom and liberty, and perhaps, now they could see the emptiness in those words- and with it came a hopelessness of not knowing what to do next, how to survive this.

Sadie, still an unknown face to the law, does what she can to stay strong and keep everyone together. Even when she comes back one day with a newspaper clipping about a vessel out of the Saint Denis docks lost at sea, thought to have no survivors, and a new wave of hopelessness washes over them all.

When it threatens to overwhelm him, he rides north, knowing of Rains Fall and the troubles they faced from meeting the man once or twice and speaking to Arthur about it all. It is not until he is on the road, camping when the night finally swallows the land, that he allows himself to feel the rage and the grief and the fear. Alone, on a moonless night, Charles curses the words he’d never said, the sorrow at the thought of never saying them.

So much had been lost in so little time, and a familiar feeling of dread curls in his chest.

The sun rises anyway, disinterested in the weight settling deep in Charles’ skin and the worries stalking the shadowed valleys of his mind.

He spends the next few days or so doing what he can for Rains Fall- hunting with some of the men or helping with repairs in the sparse village. He tracks down a reform school and burns the place to the ground after helping the captive kids escape- taking care of those that had kept them there in the first place- channeling his anger into something that could at least feel justified, but he feels cold despite the flames and the blood on his hands. The tribe welcomes him warmly after that, inviting him to stay and eat and rejoice with the reunited families.

He can’t help but feel a strange disconnect in his days in Wapiti. These people were not the same as his mother’s, this tribe not quite the one he used to know, but he’s blanketed with an odd familiarity. Like the smell of an old quilt forgotten in the back of a closet, something discovered but not quite new. He speaks to Eagle Flies and listens when he’s told about the injustices they’ve been facing, the constant pressure and fear of dashed hopes and stolen dreams. He shares his own stories, the chaos of the past few weeks and the strange life he’d found himself in, the people he’d lost.

They offer their traditions, their proverbs, their advice. Paytah and Eagle Flies- both proven to be fast friends to Charles sometime in between hunting together and bringing back the children that had been taken- sit him down and section off his hair. At the end of it, he hardly recognizes himself, but feels lighter nonetheless- with shaved sides and a long braid running down his back.

It’s a kind of respite, staying in Wapiti, helping Rains Fall- hardened wisdom and grace shaped by years of survival. He could follow a man like that, who- after so much fighting and loss- still has kindness in his heart, who only wants peace, stability, safety for his family and his people.

Charles wonders if they’ll ever see it again. ‘Peace.’

His mind travels back to the gang- hiding in the swamps, scared and alone. Sadie promised she’d hold the fort up for a few days, but guilt prickled at him at staying away for so long. For the first time, he feels torn in two ways- a part of him wanting to help the people in Wapiti, especially after finding solidarity in their company and a purpose for something much larger than himself, much larger than the gang and Dutch’s ideals, even. The other part of him whispers all the words that had been stuck in his chest, the warmth and familiarity lost somewhere in the sea, a feeling that had grounded him and given him a hope for a future, a place of belonging. He could stay in Wapiti, leave the gang in the capable hands of Sadie Adler and let them all decide how to live their lives. They probably wouldn’t even blame him for it.

But grief was a heavy blanket, and weighted was the coat of duty. He could not stay here, not when his heart was somewhere else.

•••

That day in the mountains, when they’d gone hunting together the first time, Charles had asked Arthur why he hadn’t left the gang.

He’d wanted to ask again that night before the bank robbery, when the shadows grew in depth and darkness and the crew that had gone to pay Bronte a social call had come back looking haunted- all except for Dutch, who had a look in his eyes that sent a chill down Charles’ spine.

And then Arthur had told him what had happened, the fighting, the kidnapping, and the alligator that was eating well tonight. There was a million unsaid words in Arthur’s eyes that night, fears of consequences and what the way Dutch had killed Bronte meant, realizations that the man had changed and morphed into someone else entirely- driven near mad under the pressure of the constant running, the persistent threats, after each job that went wrong.

Dutch had been the foundation onto which Arthur had staked most of his life on, and it was crumbling away like sand on the shore.

From the way John’s dark gaze met Arthur’s, similar thoughts must have been running through his head. Charles couldn’t even imagine what the pair of them were feeling, both of them raised by Dutch, bound to him not by blood but by faith and loyalty. Both left faltering was they watched him steam ahead into certain destruction without a glance over his shoulder- without a single care for the ones he called _family._

The first time Charles had asked Arthur why he hadn’t left, Dutch was still the shining beacon of liberty and freedom that had given them all a purpose, a promise, a reason to be loyal.

That night, he was a man that had killed another in cold blood and fed him to an _alligator,_ always claiming ‘ _it’s us or them, I figure it may as well be them.’_

Later, when it had been just the pair of them, brushing down their horses as an excuse to be in the same space, Charles wanted to ask if Arthur’s answer had changed since that snow-bitten ride in the wind and the cold. He wanted to shake Arthur’s shoulders, tell him he didn’t have to follow Dutch into the grave, ask him to get on Hercules and Taima and ride as far away as they could go.

He should’ve asked.

He should have told him.

•••

Reverend Swanson had told them about ghosts, that day when they’d moved into Lakay. Charles paid him no heed, used to tuning out the ramblings of the drunkard. Even if lately, the dear reverend had started to sober up and gather his act together, surprising in the face of the gang falling apart before their eyes. Most everyone else had been crumbling along with it, Karen found at the bottom of a bottle more often than not since Sean’s burial, Pearson and Uncle reacting much the same after the bank robbery, even Grimshaw’s flyaway hairs betrayed her usual composure.

But this wasn’t the first time Swanson had spoken of ghosts, and now Tilly was snapping at him and saying that _he’s_ the one with ghosts and Charles wasn’t in the mood to be hearing about lives gone but left lingering in their world.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in ghosts or the supernatural- it was more he already felt the ghosts of all the people he’d had to dig graves for recently weighing on his conscience and didn’t need more to add to the list. The idea of haunted spirits didn’t exactly scare him; after twenty odd years alone, enough dark nights spent in the backwoods without even the light of the moon or a comforting fire, and one was bound to see some strange things.

He’d heard voices that he couldn’t explain, seen lights in the sky that he couldn’t comprehend, found carvings on rocks that looked impossibly made. He’d been keeping watch in the swamp one night and there’d been a sound like someone crying, lost in the fog- and for a brief moment he could have sworn he’d seen a woman in white before he blinked and it was just dense mist and the hissing of alligators.

He was sure that it had been a ghost, but it was far away and gone in an instant, unable to actually cause him harm.

Charles was sure he was seeing a ghost again, now, after a long and restless night, and this time it clutched at his heart and made him blink a few times because it _hurt_ \- seeing _him._ And surely, he was a ghost- or a nightmare, conjured by his mind as a coping mechanism.

But the sun streamed in through grungy slated windows, and the rest of the gang was hugging the ghost and patting his shoulder and he was smiling at them, hugging them back.

And then he had his arms around Charles, and he was there, in his arms- solid, breathing, a little (a lot) stinky, squeezing his middle tightly, and Charles was holding him back. 

“It’s good to see you,” Arthur was saying.

Charles didn’t know whether to laugh, or cry, or pinch himself to make sure this wasn’t a cruel dream after all. Words failed him and all he could do was stare back at the blue he’d missed so much. Even when he was swept away by Abigail, guided to a seat while Sadie caught him up on John’s situation and Pearson handed him a plate of food. Arthur sits, shoveling food in his mouth, listening to Sadie as she recounted everything that had happened.

Alive, present, breathing- eating as if he hadn’t in weeks. He looked a mess, thinner around the edges, skin burnt pink and peeling in places, his shaggy hair had even turned a shade lighter.

Arthur tells them his side of the past few weeks, the shipwreck, the island, a man named Hercule, rescue missions and sugar bombs and firing a canon into a Navy ship.

He talks and Charles listens to every word, revels in the deep gravel of his voice and the light drawl at the end of his sentences.

He doesn’t miss any of the quick glances shot his way, brief looks that Charles thinks are just as much benefit to Arthur as they are for him.

It’s not until later, when he’s finished eating and had a chance to clean himself a bit and change into fresh clothes, that Charles finds him again with a gaze flooded with relief and a small smile on his lips.

“Come with me, there’s someone who’s really missed you these past few weeks,” Charles jerks his head towards the doorway and Arthur smirks as he stands to follow.

He leads them away from the group of cabins to the muddy pasture formed for the horses, and it doesn’t take more than a second for a golden head to snap up and whinny loudly.

“There’s my boy,” Arthur grins as he clicks his tongue, meeting Hercules halfway as he trotted carefully up to his rider. Charles stands back a bit, pets Taima’s shoulder as she meanders over to see what the commotion was about. Arthur is murmuring something into Hercules’ neck and the sight warms Charles’ heart a fraction, a sight sorely missed. “Aw, I missed ya, buddy,” he steps back with a final grin and turns back to Charles with a look lighter than Charles had seen it in a while, even before the disastrous day in the city, an easy smile on his lips and a crinkle in the corners of his eyes.

He takes a pause to look Charles over, lingering on his hair for a moment before meeting his eyes again. He holds out his hands wordlessly and Charles takes the step forward needed for them to meet, twining their fingers together with an aching familiarity he’d thought he wouldn’t get to know again.

“Missed you,” Arthur mutters, and there’s a slight furrow in his brow as he looks down at their joined hands, “I- didn’t know if I’d see ya again.”

“Me too,” Charles murmurs, and bites his lip before tugging Arthur in for a crushing embrace. He holds him back just as tightly, shaking a little with unsaid words and heavy emotions.

He smells like salt, sweat, and rust. But it’s still Arthur. Alive, breathing, present.

There’s a moment when Charles realizes just how much he’d missed the man, how much his heart had broken when they’d parted, how afraid he’d been of never seeing him again.

They stay like that for what could be minutes or hours, locked in each other’s embrace as if it would be the last, memorizing the sounds of beating hearts and matching breaths.

“Damn it, Arthur,” he nestles his face into the crook of his shoulder, “you gotta knock off this nearly dyin’ thing.”

“Y’know, I’m inclined to agree, think I’m gettin’ too damn old for this,” Arthur chuckles and it dissolves into a cough that has Charles pulling away and looking at him with concern. “Your hair,” Arthur starts, waving off the worry and instead tracing a hand down the side of Charles’ shaved head, the peach fuzz where long raven waves once grew.

“It’s- a sign of mourning,” Charles starts, bringing a hand up to the back of his head briefly, “I… we thought we’d lost all of you. After burying Hosea and Lenny, I went up to Wapiti, helped where I could. Some of the warriors helped me cut it.”

Arthur’s hand retreats, and his face falls at the mention of the two casualties of the robbery. Shadows fall on his face and Charles hates himself for putting them there.

“I almost forgot about all that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, not your fault…”

“…do you want to go see them? It’s not far.”

“…yeah.”

They tack and mount up, Hercules seemingly relieved to finally have Arthur on his back again. Charles remembers the distress of the stallion, that dark night when fear had been in his throat and he’d run into the shadows hoping, _wishing_ that his distraction worked and Arthur was on his way towards relative safety. He’d called for Taima when he was finally in the clear and Hercules had come with her, snorting and tossing his head when he didn’t see his person anywhere.

He’d been tense and stubborn as Charles had tried to bring him back to camp, whinnying for Arthur and huffing in distress. Now when he tosses his head, it's something like joy at the comforting routine of riding out with the right people. Even Arthur breathes a contented little sigh as he settles back into the saddle. A hand dives into one of the saddlebags and pulls out a familiar hat, pulling a small smile out of both of them as Arthur puts it on his head and says something about feeling like himself again.

They ride out, sunlight bright in the late afternoon sky. It’s easy to slip into their normal pattern, Taima and Hercules gently loping side by side at a steady pace. Charles wishes it didn’t have to end, that they could keep riding and follow the sun as it set on the western horizon.

They reach the field in no time at all, Saint Denis bright in the muggy background of the swamp. Charles wished they could have found a better place for the graves, but at the time there hadn’t been many options and the ground here was at least solid enough to dig holes into. A singular tree interrupts the sprawling pasture, two crosses near the base. He hangs back as Arthur dismounts and heads towards them.

He knew how much Hosea meant to him, how fond of Lenny he’d been. His shoulders are trembling just slightly as he lowers himself to sit before the graves, taking his hat off in respect.

Charles gives him his space, gives him as much time as he needs.

He thinks about what’ll happen next, now that Arthur was back and the rest- Bill, Micah, Jaiver, Dutch- were surely to return soon enough, but for a few blessed hours while they waited for the man to come back and lead them on to the next plan probably bound for disaster, he could be with Arthur and pretend it would turn out fine.

They'd have to get John out, of course. Sadie had been out, planning things, figuring out how to save Abigail's foolish husband. Arthur was undoubtedly mulling it over in his own mind, processing the information however he can. Dutch would come back, they'd get John out, and after that? Well. 

A question pops up in his head again, and the opportunity to turn it into a real possibility seems too tempting to pass up.

It’s another while before Arthur lifts his head and looks back to Charles, who takes that as his cue to approach, folding himself down into a seat beside Arthur and rubbing a soothing hand on his back.

“Don’t really know what we’re going to do now,” Arthur starts, looking at Hosea’s name on the cross, “Hosea… he always kept Dutch in check. They been running this gang a long time. And Dutch he… that island, Charles, it was hell. He killed an old woman who was supposed to be helpin’ us. Killed her in cold blood, ‘cause he thought she’d betray us. He…”

The words trail off, lost to the scowl and the downward tilt of his chin, shrouded in the shadow of his hat. A breeze- too warm and humid to offer any real relief- rustles over them, dappled sunlight streaming through the foliage of the tree above dances in the shade. Arthur takes a heavy sigh, a loud puff of air through his nose like he’s trying to shake away the darkness swarming in his mind.

“D’you think he knew? ‘bout us?” Arthur nods vaguely in the direction of Hosea’s grave, and something in Charles softens slightly.

“I know he did,” despite everything, a small smirk pulls back the corner of Charles’ lips at the memory resurfacing, “he uh- caught me coming down the stairs the night after you came back from the riverboat job…”

“ _Oh.”_

A cleanly shaved jaw, two figures leaving the party earlier than anyone else, heated looks and curious lips and hands- a brief moment to forget about the worries outside of the space between them.

Charles had come down those stairs looking far less composed than he usually did. A fact that wouldn’t’ve mattered, with most of the gang long asleep or passed out surrounded by empty bottles- no one would’ve been up as the sun barely peeked through the trees.

Except Hosea, sitting on the back porch in the cold barely-there light of pre-dawn, awake and finding Charles with mussed hair and ruffled clothes.

_“Good morning, Mister Smith,” he’d said, knowing grin barely stifled by the pipe in his mouth._

_“Uhm. Mornin’,” Charles had replied, clearing his throat when his voice came out hoarser than he meant it to. A heat began to spread down his neck, and he cursed his luck- first Sadie, now-_

_“Best you go get some rest, long day ahead,” a long pull from the pipe, smoke billowing out as he exhales._

_“Right,” and Charles steps away, towards his own bedroll- definitely not in the house._

_“And Charles?”_

_“Hm?”_

_“Best you button your shirt all the way up today,” he sniggers as he gestures to his collar, eyes gleaming as Charles’ widen, nodding dumbly as he retreats with a burning neck._

They both let themselves relax enough so let out a breath of laughter as Charles recounts the exchange.

“I think he probably suspected us ‘round the time after Colm grabbed me,” Arthur starts, eyes distant and wistful in the way he would get during times like these when memories would be dredged up from their boxes, “but we… didn’t really get a chance to talk much, those last few weeks.”

Charles rubs his back in comforting strokes, trying not to notice the way his ribs feel just a bit more prominent.

“I… I miss him, Charles. Nothing’s gonna be the same, now.”

And that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? Even with Dutch on his way back and the gang finally gathering up whatever was left of it- nothing could go back to the way it was. The only way ahead now was to adapt, to change _something_ because whatever they’d done up till now had gotten them scarcely more than death and destruction at every turn. 

“Arthur-” Charles starts, waiting for the other to look over his shoulder and meet his eyes “-do you remember when we went hunting, back in Colter?”

“Of course.”

“I asked you why you hadn’t run off.”

“Charles…”

“I’m asking you again.”

There’s a beat where Arthur looks at Charles, eyes stormy and far-away with the thoughts and words swimming in his head. He breaks the gaze first, falling again on the graves in front of them.

“Twenty years, Charles… Dutch- He’s… the gang, this family it’s- it’s all I got.”

“No, it’s not.”

Arthur’s head pops up again, meeting him with wide eyes and brows drawn up with a look that’s something like trepidation written in the lines of his face, as if he knows what Charles wants to ask, what he wants to say. A question as heavy as a train car and words as deep as the sea.

He opens his mouth speak, taking a steadying breath- but all too quickly it turns into more coughing and worry worms further into Charles’ chest because it’s a rattling, wet, horrible sound that can’t be promising anything good.

“You’re right, I got the gang, _and_ this lovely cough,” Arthur tries, turns his lips up in a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes and Charles can’t respond to.

“Arthur…”

“C’mon, it’s gonna be dark soon, we better head back.” It’s not anywhere near sunset, but Arthur moves to stand anyway, stifling another cough as he goes, unfolding from the ground as gracefully as a horse heaving itself upwards as it stands- which is to say, not very gracefully at all. Charles is on his feet in the next second, frowning Arthur as he walks away and back towards the horses.

Stubborn as ever to sidestep talking about his wellbeing, to dodge words he didn’t want to answer.

Charles was nothing if not resilient, however. Patience to counterbalance stubbornness.

“ _Arthur_ , listen to me,” he follows him as far as the horses before reaching a hand to his shoulder and stopping him from mounting up, turning him so he has to look at Charles again. “We all know this- wherever Dutch is gonna lead us- it’s not going to end well. You’ve said it yourself.”

Arthur doesn’t respond, doesn’t meet his gaze- hides under the rim of his hat and Charles is tempted to toss it into the wind.

“I don’t... I can’t just leave, Charles. Dutch needs me.”

“Are you really willing to follow him into the grave?”

“I-“

“I’ve buried a lot of people recently, Arthur, you gonna make me bury you too?” It comes out harsher than he means it to- bitter like coffee grounds at the bottom of a cup- it makes Arthur flinch at the bite of his words. Charles takes a breath, throws sand on the sudden flame of frustration that had grown under his ribs. “I just… I don’t want to lose you, Arthur, I-“

“Don’t-“ he whispers it, barely audible, and when his eyes come up once more they are shining with unspoken words, because he _knows_ what Charles wants to say.

Charles has never been one for words, Arthur being much the same- a shared tendency that was one of the many strings that had woven them together almost seamlessly. It’s the only reason the words get stuck in his chest now, because he _knows_ that neither of them need to hear it to know it. He knows the weight they carry, the power they hold.

Words in the hands of people like Dutch could be weapons and tools, used to rouse and inspire but also to control and manipulate. Neither Charles nor Arthur had much use for words like that- the words in their hands always just felt too _big_ and _loud_ when an easy touch or an endless gaze could convey the same message.

So he doesn’t say it out loud, not yet, not when Arthur isn’t ready to hear it said. Charles brushes back a strand of hair that had fallen out of his hat and watches Arthur trace the beads of his necklace. He winds an arm around Arthur’s waist, lifting the other to tilt his hat back enough to press a tender kiss to his forehead. In the distance, a train clatters on the rails, scattering flocks of ducks and egrets and cranes, alligators blink in the hazy sunlight, cypresses sway in breezes too warm to be a relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yknow, when i started this fic i wasn't gonna have much Charles POV but like, here we are. 
> 
> Also, yeah, Arthur is coughing. I feel like his sickness was a big catalyst in his character development and a lot of the change we see in him in chap 6 is because he knows he's dying. that being said i'm obviously not gonna kill him because Arthur Morgan Lives is the most important tag, but yeah, he's coughing, but he won't die.
> 
> it's weird to be approaching the end of this fic. when i started it i didn't think it would get this long and definitely not this popular. i love reading everyones comments (even if im bad at replying to all of them) and each kudos and click makes me smile and want to write more.
> 
> that being said i might have to take a break from writing this for a few weeks (lmao as if ive been keeping any sort of schedule anyway) because it's the end of uni and i gotta get some shit done BUT. it'll get there. i've got the rest of what happens vaguely outlined in my head. Arthur and Charles will be happy by the end of it and hopefully so will all of you, my wonderful readers.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lakay pt 2  
> in which Arthur does a lot of thinking about the L word

_“Don’t you ever leave love aside, Arthur, it’s all we got.”_

Dutch had told him this, and a few short hours later had drowned a man and fed him to opportunistic gators.

Had it been love that drove the man into seeking revenge on Bronte in the first place? Was it love that tunneled his vision so sharply that he couldn’t see how bad an idea robbing a bank in the middle of the city was? Where had love been in his mind when he and the others rowed away from a sinking ship, leaving Arthur behind, calling Dutch's name out to nothing but turbulent winds and lashing rain?

Whatever it was, Arthur couldn’t say. Maybe love _had_ powered Dutch all this time, maybe he loved his family so fiercely he believed it justified everything he’d done in the name of the gang, to protect them.

Or maybe it was love, but not for family- for power, for money, for vengeance.

 _Love_. The great motivator in life, right? Something to ‘never leave aside,’ something to live and die for. Or so they say.

In Arthur’s experience, love- real, honest, the ride or die kind of love- only comes with pain. He’d loved Mary, the idea of the life they could’ve had- and now his heart still ached to think on it. He’d loved Isaac, even if the gravity of it didn’t settle in his chest until it was too late. He could’ve loved Eliza too, in a way, if he had been wise enough to stay and raise their son together. Perhaps then he’d truly know this ‘love’ everyone speaks of, with the wife and the child and the farmhouse, and not have any pain attached to it. Not that love mattered that much in the end, they were gone and buried whether or not Arthur had any sort of feelings for them.

He had loved John, and the fool up and _left_ for an entire year. Even if now, in light of everything, they’d finally approached some common ground, the hurt still lingered on the edges of Arthur’s heart.

He’d loved the gang most, then, and his life in it- the people that made up some sort of family in a world that had all but cast them out. He loved them still, even as everything was falling apart around him.

Arthur had loved Hosea, and now he was six feet in the ground. He’d loved Sean and Lenny more than he’d care to admit- little brothers to him just as John had been, once upon a time- and they were dead and gone too, regardless.

And he loved Dutch, surely, as much Dutch claimed to love him too. Arthur knew that he wouldn’t be _hurting_ quite so much if he didn’t really love the man who’d raised him and led the way all his life.

He'd come to accept that with love came pain, and the more Arthur cared for it- the more it hurt when he inevitably lost it.

Maybe that’s why, when Charles had that look in his eyes, the words on the tip of his tongue, Arthur had to stop the man from speaking. As if maybe, never hearing the words would somehow make it hurt less when something inevitably went wrong and ripped Charles away from him.

And of all the people Arthur had loved in his cursed life, Charles could not- _would not-_ be another casualty, another tear in Arthur’s battered heart, another memory filled with more sadness and hurt than not.

Sometimes, Arthur wonders if he could tell the man to run, to find safety, ride back to Wapiti and stay with them, rightfully so. Arthur almost wanted to tell him to go, cut him loose before Hell opened its maw for them once again, even if it meant he’d have to break both of their hearts to do it.

But he’d never been particularly skilled at lying to Charles- and telling him he’d be better off by cutting ties with Arthur and the rest would be a blatant one. The huntsman would see straight through him, as he always did, and would probably call Arthur a fool for even suggesting it.

And though it hurts, there’s a small, selfish part of Arthur that’s glad for it- happy to accept Charles’ faith and more even if it made him more of a fool to do so.

Dutch’s words stay in his mind, however, later that night when the man himself finally makes his re-entrance- greeting the gang with arms stretched wide like a king before his people.

Arthur does try his best not to leave love aside when the Pinkertons follow shortly after, bringing with them a torrential downpour both literal and of bullets, threatening to take away everything and everyone left that Arthur cared for. _Again._

Arthur’s lungs are burning but as long as he can breathe and see, he can shoot. He can take up arms and send bullets through skulls and tear open arteries and lay waste to those that threaten the ones Arthur is meant to _protect._

They drive back the onslaught eventually, and though no one is injured beyond a few scrapes, no one is left entirely unscathed, either. They regroup, shaken and scared, and Dutch- more ruffled by the ambush than he’d ever let on- snaps orders with a voice more cracked than Arthur has ever heard it. The man even snaps at Abigail when she reminds him about John.

Arthur wonders where love is if _not_ aside when Dutch waves her away with a ‘ _not now’_ and stalks back into the cabins with Micah, the ever-present leech at his heel, following close behind.

She turns to Arthur then, and he can _see_ the love- the _devotion-_ in her eyes when she asks him and Sadie to do something, and how could they not after Abigail’s voice falters and _‘It would break my- the boy’s heart.’_ Sadie swears to bring the fool back, unwilling to have Abigail live through the pain that Sadie’s had to live through, and once again Arthur is reminded of how much pain love can bring.

Arthur does his damned hardest not leave love aside here; he will rescue his stupid little brother, again, as he always would. It’s never even been a question of ‘ _if’_ he’d do it- he would save and protect those he cared about because, in Dutch’s and even Hosea’s own words, love is all they had.

He wonders if Dutch still _remembers_ those words anymore, or if they’d been lost to the chaos and the blood along with so much more.

Sadie rides off into the city, leaving him with orders to find her in a few days, and leaves him lagging as some of the others begin the grueling task of clearing away Pinkerton bodies.

For a moment, while he’s catching his breath as the echoes of gunshots and the rush of adrenaline in his veins wear off, he wonders if the alligators of this bayou will develop a taste for human meat, for all that they have eaten in the name of Van der Linde.

“Arthur,” a voice snaps him out of his reverie and the winding rabbit hole he was digging himself into, “you okay?”

And it’s Charles, of course, warmth and resilience and something _else_ that lets Arthur relax, even if just for a moment, even if his heart squeezes tightly in the rattling cage of his ribs.

“Ain’t dead yet,” Arthur manages, voice shot to hell- both from yelling over the sound of bullets and the coughs that- like some kind of irony- tumble out of his chest after he tries to sigh. Beside him, Charles frowns.

“You should go back inside, get some rest.”

“I will, jus’ gonna help-“ he gestures vaguely to the scattered corpses and bowler hats strewn about. “And I should talk to Dutch…”

“You should get some rest,” Charles repeats, pinning Arthur with a _look._

“An’ I _will,_ jus’ after-“

Charles’ frown deepens.

And really, under the weight of those dark eyes, Arthur is powerless to do anything but his bidding. He sighs, shoulders slumping over in defeat- tinged with relief, however, because he really is just so, _so_ tired, and he needs time to sort out his thoughts in the comfort of his journal.

“Fine, _fine_ , I’ll go. Lemme just check on Herc-“

“I’ll make sure he’s taken care of.”

“-ules…”

“Get some rest, Arthur.”

The rain is still pouring down, less torrential than before, but enough to seep past his clothes and into his skin. He’s not doing whatever has him coughing any more favors by staying out in the wet. He regards Charles, the scowl in his face somewhat softened by the warmth in his eyes, a look that says _‘I care about you, but I will also kick your fool ass if I need to_ ’ and Arthur is sure Charles could probably lift him over his shoulder and carry him to his bed if he tried to fight back on the order (a thought which isn’t so bad, Arthur muses, if only it weren’t for the time and place and this ridiculous cough in his chest).

“Fine,” he relents, stalling by Charles’ side as he turns back towards the cabin where his bedroll has been laid out- not coincidentally in the same corner as Charles’, “you on watch tonight?”

“No,” the briefest twitch appears on the corner of his lips, a silent ‘ _later’_ in response to Arthur’s lingering gaze.

The rain stops by the time ‘later’ comes around, after the bodies have been moved out of sight, and a meager dinner has been spread around the dozen or so people left. It occurs to him that Molly is missing- though with the way things had been going between her and Dutch, it doesn’t surprise him that she cut ties and disappeared after that disastrous job in the city. He hopes she’s ok, wherever she’d landed. Karen’s state of distress worries him- she’s fallen far from the fierce and cunning woman he knows- but there’s not much he can offer in terms of comfort. Dutch tries a speech, something to lift everyone’s spirits- remind them of their dreams and hopes, as if gunpowder doesn’t still hang in the air from the attack from the Pinkertons- who _knew where they were_ , a fact that does not bode well and hangs heavily on all of them.

Eventually, folk drift off to their respective beds or hammocks. Arthur retreats to the relative safety of one of the few rooms in the cabin. ‘Room’ may have been a strong word, most of the boards on the separating wall had rotted or been torn away, and the space was more like a large closet just big enough for a few bedrolls- his and Charles’ on one side, Sadie’s on the other, while the open space in the main part of the cabin was hung up with spare hammocks for the majority of the gang- the rest taking up room in the neighboring shack, Dutch included.

Arthur tries not to dwell too much on Dutch, or the thoughts and feelings he’d been having that the man would accuse as ‘doubts.’ He’d never doubted Dutch in his _life_ , but things were a mess and for all of the scrapes they’d squeezed out of before- this one doesn’t seem to be letting go. Hosea’s loss was a heavier burden than anyone had mentioned, as if anyone would even _dare_ to- and Arthur didn’t even want to imagine how Dutch was feeling over the murder of his oldest friend, his literal partner-in-crime and more.

And god, Arthur _missed_ Hosea, wished more than anything the wily old man was here to kick their asses and figure out a way out of this chain of disaster. A memory winds its way back to the forefront; a sunny day in Clemens Point, seemingly a lifetime ago now, when he’d been trying to talk some sense into John- something Arthur had taken note of in the weeks following Blackwater. Now, in Hosea’s absence, Arthur swore to get the fool to see the truth of what actually _matters_ and get out before it was too late. 

_‘We all gotta die, but love… love is the only thing.’_

John had Abigail, who loved him even after all his foolishness, and a son that was bright and clever and offered something like a legacy. The crumbling remains of the gang, this way of life and all the blood and violence it entailed- how could any of that even hold a light to true, honest love?

And Arthur... Arthur was sure he'd never have love like that again. He had counted on that fact, had resigned himself to live and die for the gang because outside of it, he had nothing. But now...

Arthur brings his hands up, pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes until stars burst and popped in the odd void of no vision. Rest wouldn’t come to him as long as he was thinking about how much of a mess everything was, and how much it worried him that he couldn’t really figure out what came next. He cursed himself for all the things he should’ve done- talked to Hosea more, learnt more of his wisdom, listened to stories he already knew but didn’t mind hearing again, told the man how thankful he’d been for his guidance.

Instead, he sighs, pushes out the ‘ _I should’ve’s_ and the ‘ _what if’_ s and ‘ _what now_ ’s out of his head until all he can hear are sounds of the bayou filling the night air- a chorus now familiar in Arthur’s ears, seemingly amplified this deep in the swamp, especially after the downpouring of rain. Most of the gang has faded away into sleep or muffled conversation outside the building. He listens to the ambient sounds around him until he hears footsteps gentler than they had any right to be make their way over to the bedroll next to him.

Arthur rolls to his side, smiling up tiredly at Charles, looming above him with a cup of something steaming in his hand.

“Drink this,” Charles says, kneeling and handing him the tin mug, “for your cough.”

“Mm, thank you,” Arthur accepts it gladly, sitting up and wrapping his fingers around the warmth of the metal. The heat and humidity of the swamp was overbearing for the most part, but whatever illness had begun to bloom in his chest had left him feeling none of the warmth in the air. The sip he takes of the tea- something minty and herbal with a touch of sweetness Arthur suspects might be honey- is a respite after the god-awful night they’d had so far.

Meanwhile, Charles settles down for the night- shucking off boots and damp clothes. And sure, Arthur watches him over the lip of the mug in his hand perhaps longer than would strictly be friendly, but they’d crossed that line long enough ago that he feels no shame in it now. He watches Charles- stripped down to his long johns but now wearing a clean, dry shirt (the blue one Arthur loves to see), in case there’s a need for a rude awakening that doesn’t afford them time to dress- crawl beneath his blanket without an ounce of reproach in his gaze. Their voices, when they speak, are the quiet, dulcet tones reserved for the space between them.

“You’re staring.”

“You’re hard to look away from.”

Charles scoffs, fighting the smile that wants to break out on his face with little effort.

“How’s the tea?”

“’s good. Did you put honey in it?”

“Yeah, you like it?”

“I love it.”

A beat.

Words flash through Arthur’s mind- Hosea’s, Dutch’s- even Abigail’s. A few hours ago, Arthur couldn’t bear to even hear them.

They’d almost died tonight, though, _again._

“Charles I… I should’ve said it earlier, but- I jus’…”

He trails off when Charles’ hand lightly lands on Arthur’s arm, and when Arthur looks at the man, he’s not fighting the smile that graces his features this time- even if there is still a heaviness in his eyes and a pinch in his brow from the despondency of their lives at the moment. At least this thing- this _love-_ that they’d forged between them, was something good- something warm and comforting in a hailstorm of bad luck.

And it must be something like love, Arthur thinks, Charles’ gentle smile and the affectionate glow of his gaze. It must be some dumb luck granted to Arthur. So damn lucky, to have a man like Charles even look his way in a positive light. In a world where Arthur was suddenly finding himself losing everything, Charles was a lifeline- keeping him afloat and reminding him that he hasn’t been lost to the turmoil just yet. Reminding him, even, that Arthur could be a man with a _future_ , a different sort of life that they haven't figured out yet. But it was there, a life and a future, with _Charles-_ who accepts and knows and _loves_ Arthur just as he is (even if he is a talking train-wreck on two legs kind of man). Arthur couldn't have imagined this, and yet. 

“I know,” he lowers his arm to pat the floor next to him, a clear invitation for Arthur to scooch his bedroll the few extra feet that separate them, and when Arthur’s eyes flit up towards the missing boards of the wall that doesn’t offer any _real_ privacy, he adds “everyone’s mostly asleep, and Sadie knows.”

Arthur’s about to say that Sadie most likely wouldn’t be in tonight- gone off in Saint Denis to chase down her leads on John’s rescue- but Charles’ words catch him off guard.

“She knows?”

“She notices a lot more than she ever admits to.”

“ _Hah- s_ he really is somethin’, alright.”

“Sure, now c’mere, I don’t want to talk about Sadie right now,” Charles extends his arm again and tugs on Arthur’s sleeve (a fresh shirt that had Arthur promising himself never to take clean clothes for granted again).

Arthur inches his bedroll across the small space without any more prompting, finally settling down with his head somewhere over Charles’ heartbeat, arms wrapped around each other, legs tangled under the blankets from the opening in their bedrolls. Exactly where Arthur had been wishing he could be, the entire time he was in Guarma.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever have a ‘home’ in the traditional sense, but he figured that didn’t matter as long as he had _this_ to return to. ‘Home’ had never been a place to Arthur, it had always been a people- and now, specifically, a person. He'd be a fool to pretend anything otherwise. 

“Where’d you get the honey?” Unprompted, but curiosity has Arthur asking anyway. Honey was a luxury they rarely had in their food stores, and especially now with everything… the way it was.

“I keep some hidden in my saddlebag. Don’t tell Pearson.”

Arthur breathes out a chuckle, pleased when it _doesn’t_ dissolve into another coughing fit. The tea had worked miracles, it seemed.

“You really are a wonder, Charles.”

Charles’ responding laugh is more of a vibration in his chest than a noise out of his mouth- and for a brief and ridiculous moment Arthur is reminded of a purring cat. He smiles at the thought, though he doesn’t share it with the man in question.

“Go to sleep, Arthur,” Charles breathes, faint mirth at the edges of his words. The arm wrapped around Arthur’s shoulder shifts, patting his head softly, and he makes a show of yawning, closing his eyes to sleep.

The choir of frogs and gators outside lulls him under in no time at all, his mind finally quiet and his body warmed by the furnace that was Charles, and despite the ambush and the nightmares to come, Arthur slips into slumber with a soft smile etched onto his lips.

•••

Arthur still remembers waking up at Horseshoe Overlook. Crisp mornings and clear birdsong, a chill frosty quality to the air that's quickly soothed by the rising sun. Around him the gang would shuffle and shift into their morning routines, chatter and yawns and the pops of stiff joints chiming in with the birds, breathing easier with the mountains and the storms behind them and the promising warmth of liberty and summer ahead of them.

It’s far away from how he wakes now, on a floor made of more mildew than wood, with the stench of the swamp outside hanging in the heavy air. The rest of the camp is quiet as they wake on the other side of the ramshackle wall, glumly shuffling around as they start some semblance of what was once called routine. Back at Horseshoe, they still woke with a small ember of hope in their eyes.

Things were different, now.

He wakes up with Charles curled up around him, at least, so not every difference between then and now was bad. Even if they do have to untangle nearly as soon as they rise and Arthur almost mourns the brief second of peace and warmth he’d felt upon opening his eyes, before reality flooded in like a rude bucket full of water on a sleeping drunkard.

“I’ll start some coffee,” Charles mumbles, sliding into pants and boots and belts. His voice is thick with the last traces of sleep and Arthur wonders what a lazy morning with Charles would look like. If he’d ever even get the chance to find out.

The sun is already bright and hazy when Arthur finally starts his own day, humidity sticking to his skin already. The pit in his stomach, a constant friend since they’d run from Blackwater and maybe even before, if Arthur is honest with himself, rolls around uncomfortably and incessantly as he picks his way to find Dutch at the back of the shack he’d claimed. Miss Grimshaw had come to Arthur as he sipped on his coffee, snapping something about how Dutch needs to talk to him. He downed the rest of his drink and, with a stony glance shared with Charles, headed off with heavy shoulders.

The man himself is reclined on a rickety chair at the back of the wrap-around porch of the shack, and a wave of goosebumps drips down Arthur’s spine when he hears Dutch muttering something that sounded like chess moves.

“You alright?” Arthur asks, even though he knows the man very much _isn’t_.

“Workin’ it all out. Once and for all, Arthur.”

Dutch talks and talks and Arthur- for whose sake, he doesn’t quite know- _tries_ to ignore the manic notes clinging to the edges of Dutch’s voice that have been rising in pitch for the past few weeks and months until it’s become glaring to anyone who knows Dutch, knows how smooth his voice can be, and knows how much of his gravitas is betrayed now by the haze of madness clouding his eyes and tinting his words.

“They want us, Arthur! They _want_ us, and they are _going_ to _have_ us.”

“Well maybe they ain’t the problem.”

“Meaning?” Dutch spits the word out like he’s afraid of the answer, seemingly indignant at the fact that Arthur _may_ be questioning him.

And maybe Arthur is.

“I don’t know, it’s just… well- I can’t help but feel we would’ve been better running off someplace else.”

“But the- the game ain’t over, Arthur. I mean I ain’t- I ain’t played my… my final move, but…”

The _game?_ When had Dutch stopped thinking of the gang and his _family’s_ life as a game? Chess to be won by clever tricks and a few cheats? When had his family become no more than pawns?

“I guess I’m more interested in saving lives than winnin’ at chess.”

“Maybe life ain’t such a thing to cling onto so tightly.”

“No doubt. What about the women?”

“You sound like Hosea,” Dutch’s expression falls and his voice bleeds with the grief behind it. For the first time since they’d started this damned talk, the swamp’s chorus fills the still air. “I miss… him.”

Arthur’s chest feels hollow for a moment, but he presses on.

“I asked you a question.”

“What do you think?” 

“We can’t stay here, that much is obvious. But where we gonna run to? I mean they chased us from the west, they chased us over the mountains, they ran us into the sea.”

Dutch rubs a finger to his temple, scowl etched deep into his expression, and there’s a growing darkness there that’s unnerving to see on the man Arthur had followed for two whole decades.

“Arthur, do you have my back?”

He can’t believe Dutch feels the need to ask, but he answers anyway.

“Always, Dutch,” it feels like an automatic response, a balm to soothe a proud man’s ego, a mantra Arthur had followed for most of his life. “But there’s more than just your back to worry about.”

There’s a spark of frustration sparking in his gut now, and he takes full advantage of it to fuel his words- anything to make Dutch just _listen._

“We need more money. We been on the run for _months_ now and I seen you-“ Arthur leans into the Dutch’s space, voice settling in the back of his throat in the way that will usually make a man listen- “killing folk in cold blood like you always told me _not_ to. And I’m sorry but I can’t help but think that if we-“

“There is country in Roanoke Ridge, past Butcher Creek, I believe we could hold.”

“Okay,” Arthur bites his tongue, does not let Dutch’s interruption dig too far under his skin.

“And you and Charles, you could take folks up that way. Micah and I need to do some reconnaissance. I ain’t got a final plan, yet.

“Arthur, I ain’t got a… I just need time. I need time and no traitors.”

But no, Dutch was not an ordinary man, and he would not listen to Arthur. The darkness is an abyss and Arthur’s chest feels nearly torn open with Dutch looking at him like _that_ , brow twitching with the word _traitors_ pointed so viciously in Arthur’s direction it nearly knocks his breath out- not that it takes much to do so, these days.

_Never leave love aside._

Where was love when Dutch was contemplating chess moves? Where was love when he pointed a cold and piercing gaze to a man that had been following him for twenty years?

There had been a time Dutch and his words shaped the very ground Arthur walked on and Arthur had walked _proudly_ and solidly on the path he was led on. There had been a time Arthur’s words, in return, would actually _matter_ , and he’d be the one doing ‘reconnaissance’ with Dutch. There had been a time.

Not for the first time, Arthur wonders if a part of Dutch had fallen alongside Hosea, there and gone with the dust and blood on cobblestone streets.

He walks away from Dutch on creaking wooden boards that- much to Arthur’s dismay- do not open up and devour him whole. Even the ground they are built on doesn’t feel solid, like one wrong step and he will find himself sinking.

There’s an acute sort of deja-vu as Arthur finds his way back to Charles. It echoes back to what feels like a lifetime ago when they’d had to flee Valentine and they’d been sent off to find a new camp. It seems strange to Arthur, now, thinking back on it. Their feelings for each other still as fresh as a delicate fiddlehead, waiting to grow and bloom into something bigger and more beautiful than Arthur would’ve ever even imagined.

He thinks of last night, of the words left unsaid but understood regardless, of feeling more than he’d ever known and ever thought he was even deserving of. He thinks of Charles’ unwavering support, of his quiet loyalty and the honor woven into his way of existence that- if anything- reminded Arthur of a possibility of a life outside of Dutch’s shadow, a path that doesn’t lead to the edge of a cliff, a reason to survive the maelstrom threatening them all. 

“Charles,” Arthur says, and his voice is steadier now, “will you ride with me?”

Here, Arthur’s chest is no longer hollow. The shadows that grow in number and the angry pit in his stomach recede like the tide and he doesn’t feel like the carpet is being perpetually pulled out from under him. Charles looks at him with more warmth and depth than the sun itself.

Here, Arthur is not lost.

“Always,” Charles says, and the ground is solid beneath Arthur’s feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time is so weird, you take a week off of writing and suddenly a month passes.
> 
> i dont have access to the game rn so i cant remember what exactly the sleeping layout in Lakay was so i made it up because creative liberty. 
> 
> also, fuck dutch


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beaver Hollow

Saint Denis is a strange place to see a buck strolling through the streets, stopping in its tracks just in front of Arthur and looking at him with eyes that cut into the depths of his soul as easily as a knife through soft butter.

And there are voices around him, but it’s not from the people faintly milling about their daily lives on the edges of his vision.

_‘We can’t change what’s done. We can only move on.’_

_‘You have it in you, I can tell.’_

_‘He didn’t have a choice. He was good, and he did good.’_

The stag is looking straight at him, and Arthur is wondering what kind of medicine the doctor has just injected into him, because surely this was some strange hallucination brought on by whatever is coursing through his veins.

Or maybe his lungs had given in and he’d died when he fell off of Hercules in the middle of a busy byway, on his way to find Sadie.

If that were true, the visit to the doctor was nothing more than some strange purgatory.

_‘Best thing is plenty of rest, get somewhere warm and dry, and taking it easy. Now, is that possible?’_

It had been one of the funnier things he’d heard in recent weeks. Sure, somewhere in between defending a new camp, rescuing John, and following Dutch into his dark descent into madness- he’d definitely have the time to go on a vacation. He’d heard California was particularly nice this time of year.

It really was just Arthur’s luck that he’d fall so ill in what could easily be the most tumultuous time of his life.

He figures it must’ve been something he caught on his trip to Guarma. Perhaps surviving a sinking boat, washing up ashore, and being generally dirty, malnourished, and dehydrated for the better part of three weeks hadn’t all too good for his health. Not to mention the constant _stress_ that aged him faster than any number of years could _._

Briefly, the image of Thomas Downes flashes in his mind- coughing up blood onto garden soil. But _no_ , Arthur hadn’t gotten any on him. He hadn’t beaten it straight out of Downes with his own fists.

Hosea had been unwell for a long time, something chronic and unexplained but not contagious- or else others would have fallen ill. Arthur could still hear the rattling cough that had torn through the old man at times- but it wasn’t anything like what Arthur is hacking up now.

Not that the origin of his sickness mattered much, in the end.

No, getting plenty of rest and taking it easy wasn’t an option. Perhaps in another life, Arthur could get well and survive this. Perhaps in another life, he wouldn’t be facing this dilemma at all. He might’ve been a decent rancher, maybe a real cowboy- driving cattle on the range and spending days out in open country with nothing but his horse and the breathing of the earth around him and good company at his side.

Either way, Sadie was waiting for him and John needed rescuing, and that was just the first step on a long, long list of things that needed to be done before Arthur’s lungs dissolved entirely and he found the eternity he’d heard so much about.

He tries not to think about what he’ll tell Charles.

•••

Charles doesn’t exactly remember the first man he’d killed, but he remembers the blood- the smell, the unsettling stickiness and the _heat_ of it on his skin, the way it stained everything it touched as if a reminder, a constant memorandum of violence and fear and hate.

Beaver Hollow, and the intimately primal and wild feel of the forest that hides them, is soaked in it, even if the bloodstains themselves fade away with weather and time. The stink of the Murfree’s and their sins doesn’t go away as the weeks tick on. The darkness that lived in the caves and whispers in the shadows thrives even after the foul hillbilly felons are cleared away and the Van der Linde gang moves in.

If anything, the darkness continues to thrive, under Dutch’s oversight. It seeps into their camp, into the group that had once been something like a family, and it does not rinse away under the light of a new dawn or a mixture of cold water and salt in the wash bins of the women.

They walk around what’s left of their tents and wagons as nothing but husks of their former selves, like puppets on strings Charles had seen once or twice as he passed through a nondescript town.

There is no peace in Beaver Hollow or even the surrounding woods, and he finds himself really only being able to breathe after Taima has put a few miles in between him and the lunacy sparking in Dutch’s eyes every time he appears before them, surrounded by Micah’s poisonous whispers and slithering smiles. So, Charles makes himself scarce on most days.

Which is just as well, since Arthur himself is seen riding away from camp more often than into it, these days.

Charles does not miss the way his skin seems paler each time he _does_ return from whatever task has kept him away. He does not ignore the light that drains from his eyes with each passing day and the way he bulks out the weight he loses with an extra layer or a thicker coat.

And still, the man brings in food and game when he can. He sits with Mary-Beth, and talks to Tilly at the table, covers Karen with a blanket when she’s passed out after a fitful night. He reads to Jack and smiles at Abigail, drinks with Sadie or smokes with John at the edges of camp (which Charles would put an end to, with the way it wrings out horrible coughs from his chest with every other exhale, if he had anything to say about it).

Charles watches the man he’s come to feel something like love for give _everything_ he has to the home he once had, even despite clutch of the sickness that has gripped him and the fact that said ‘home’ was barely that at all, anymore. He still puts his own needs at the bottom of the totem pole, going as far as to make sure his horse is fed before he is.

And for as much as it makes Charles’ love for the man grow, it also breaks his heart all the more. 

They still manage to have their morning coffees together, on the now-rare occasion they’re both in camp at the same time to do so. It’s not near as much time at his side as Charles would like, but he wasn’t a man to believe he’d ever get everything he wished for. They both knew they had work to do, in one way or another, and time was a precious commodity that seemed harder and harder to afford lately.

Arthur, even as he grows weaker by the day, still goes out of his way to help strangers _and_ run whatever new mission Dutch appoints him to. From driving a train nearly to Strawberry to save the Rhodes equivalent of Romeo and Juliet and open the door for them to have a new, _better_ life together on, to robbing an insane amount of dynamite and using it to blow up a bridge with John.

John himself is a changed man, it seemed. It comes as a welcome and oddly surprising relief to Charles when he catches the grim look in the man’s eyes and the determination sparking beneath it all when they find time to talk, the heavy way he sighs when he looks at his small family, the taut line of his shoulders when Bill antagonizes him and when Dutch questions his loyalty. Like maybe, Arthur’s - and Hosea’s words before him- have finally drilled through John’s thick skull and he finally has some idea of the truth of what actually matters.

And Charles, when he wasn’t hunting and trapping food for their dwindling stock, was typically in Wapiti- in an all-too-similar but different feeling of approaching doom. The injustices and the broken promises and the raging fire in Eagle Flies’ eyes. The kids that Charles had saved weeks ago had been taken once again, along with some of the women, and he curses himself for not being on the reservation when it happened.

Maybe it’s that guilt, bitter in his gut, that leads him to take Eagle Flies into Beaver Hollow when the young prince asks- remembering that Arthur had helped them before and would be willing to, again- after the army take the horses and dooms them further.

They go, and the mad gleam in Dutch’s eye grows as he spouts words that only fuels the rage burning within Eagle Flies, and the bitterness in Charles’ gut sours until it seeps into his bones.

He watches the two ride away with the repossessed horses, and Arthur’s shoulders sag as his words to Dutch fall on unhearing ears.

In one fell swoop, Charles feels all the promises he’d made- to himself and to Rains Fall- begin to unravel at his feet. He was meant to _help_ , to protect those he could and prevent any more violence from befalling those who did not deserve it.

He turns to Arthur, then, who he _knows_ has made similar promises, who he knows he can count on.

“Will you talk to him?”

“Speak with Rains Fall? Sure,” there’s not even a beat of hesitation in Arthur’s voice, but Charles exhales in relief regardless. “You head on back to camp, check on the others. Dutch’s behavior…”

“I understand,” Charles sighs, glancing at Arthur and seeing the tired slope of his head, the stress lining his face.

With a terrible jolt, he realizes he can’t remember the last time he saw Arthur smile. He wasn’t even sure when he last did himself, either.

“We should camp for the night, though. It’s not safe to ride alone at this hour,” Charles proposes, and even though Arthur opens his mouth to argue, he can already see he’s won. Arthur looks at him with the closest thing to relief that he’ll get.

“Alright,” the man nods, reaching out a hand for Charles, “you’re right. Been ages since we got to spend any time together, you and me.”

“It has,” Charles takes the hand with a tight squeeze, grasping at the small flicker of warmth in his chest at the contact, “I’ve missed you.”

They meet somewhere in the middle, arms wrapped around the other and foreheads pressed together.

“Aw, Charlie, you gettin’ sentimental on me?” It’s barely more than a whisper, cracked at the edges of his hoarse voice- but it’s one of the first signs of Arthur’s humor since the return from Guarma, still stubbornly clinging on despite it all.

And for the first time in weeks, Charles feels a smirk stretch across his face.

“Maybe so,” he pulls back and presses a dry kiss to Arthur’s cheek, “ _Artie.”_

 _“Artie,_ huh?” It’s tired and small, but a grin graces Arthur’s lips and Charles feels the way a flower must feel at seeing the sun after a storm.

•••

“Where would we go?”

Arthur’s head is pillowed on Charles’ thigh, bellies full of salted venison and various tinned vegetables, heartened by half a bottle of bourbon procured from the depths of Arthur’s saddlebags. The fire in front of them crackles merrily, and the shore of the Kamassa River beyond glitters with fireflies clinging onto the last dredges of their season. If Charles closed his eyes, it’d be almost easy to pretend they were at peace, camping in beautiful country with the sound of the horses chewing nearby and no worries or troubles hiding in the shadows.

The question out of Arthur’s lips comes seemingly out of the blue- a few moments before Charles had nearly convinced himself Arthur had fallen asleep and was debating how he’d manage to move when his spine got sore without disturbing the man resting on his lap.

But Charles doesn’t need context for this particular query.

“Anywhere you want.”

Arthur _pffts_ at the line before blinking open an eye with a small smirk tucked into the corner of his lips.

“You haven’t thought about it?” Arthur continues as Charles brings up a hand to comb through dirty blonde hair, tinted near red with the firelight. He doesn’t answer right away, lets the silence that grows between them do the talking he doesn’t need to. _Of course I have,_ it says, _every day_.

“North, I reckon. Maybe Canada. Or we could turn back West, towards California,” he says after a few beats, filled by the sound of Hercules snorting and Taima huffing when he tries to get her attention.

The firewood _pops_ as flames dance around it. Charles watches a moth twirl near the light, dancing with the flames like partners in a ballroom. The hand that had been brushing Arthur’s hair moves to rest on his chest, rubbing soothing circles over the heart Charles has bound his own to.

“Reckon we could be ranchers. Get our own place, couple a’ horses, some sheep, chickens,” Arthur muses, tilting his head to watch their pair of horses swish their tails lazily, grazing at the very edge of the fire’s circle.

Charles smiles. _Our own place._

“Maybe John and his family could come visit, I could teach Jack how to ride... Sadie, too. All the girls. Whoever wants to come,” he continues, closing his eyes and tilting his head back to where it was.

“We could build some guest cabins for them, they could stay as long as they like,” Charles adds, lets himself slip into the fantasy.

“John can sleep in the barn.” Charles huffs a laugh at that, lightly swatting Arthur’s sternum at the notion.

“I reckon Abigail might agree with you on that,” Charles chuckles and his chest warms when Arthur responds with a light bark of his own laughter. His hand moves to cover Charles’ on his pec and for another while, they listen to the crackling of fire and the songs of the night beyond it.

“And you’d stay?” Arthur’s voice is quiet, as soft and vulnerable as a field mouse.

“Always,” Charles murmurs back, sincerity rumbling in the timbre of his voice.   
The moth he’d been watching takes a dive, consumed by a flame dancing too close.

•••

Fury and rage were old friends to Charles. Over the years he had learned to keep them in check, to temper the hot flame when it burst in his ribs. His stoicism was a finely crafted instrument by now, and he’d survived enough winters now to place those flames in a small box and focus on the opposite- on cultivating peace where he could, minimizing violence when it was possible, subverting the tropes so often thrown his way because he had to in order to _survive_.

Dutch Van der Linde, with all his big words and grand plans, has temped that fire more than once in the recent months and it only gets _worse_. He sinks his claws into Eagle Flies like a coyote to a rabbit and it becomes harder and harder for Charles to mitigate. The young men of the tribe all rally to their prince’s cause, and fanned by Dutch’s anarchist ideals, and they _burn._

Life at the Van der Linde camp goes on without him, he knows. He doesn’t witness Molly’s death, but he sees the hastily covered puddle of blood left in her wake and he picks up enough pieces of the story to piece it together. Dutch, Sadie, and Arthur disappear for a few days- the latter two riding off for a few more for what Charles can guess is a vicious revenge mission run by the widow herself. She had asked for his help, and though some secret part of him would have happily spilled O’Driscoll blood for what they had done to Arthur not actually that long ago, the other- more _reasonable_ \- part of him keeps him in line with his newfound ties in Wapiti.

He finds himself split down the middle more and more these days, living two lives on the opposite side of a mountain. On one hand, Rains Fall and the tribe and the achingly _familiar_ sense of it all, songs that almost sound like his mother’s once did, smells that bring back more memories than he can put names to, a community that understands him more than the folks at camp ever could. Their struggles with the army and the government are complex and much bigger than Charles could wrap his head around completely- but he was honor bound to help as he knew his parents would want him to. On the other hand, the odd bunch of outlaws that he might’ve come to know as some sort of family if it weren’t all falling apart before his very eyes, and of course, _Arthur_ \- the one person to bring Charles out of his tightly locked shell and remind him of one of man’s most primal and innate wishes- the hope of being _loved_ and to love in return, to care for and _be_ cared for, to have and to hold, and so on and so on.

It still made him feel a fool, and sometimes it still even scared him, the depth of which he _felt_ for Arthur- the longing for his smile, his touch, his wild meadow eyes. He’d never wanted for anything; Charles had come to accept he’d spend his life running from one thing or another and he’d never hoped to _keep_ anything save for a few mementos of a life long gone. And then suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, along came Arthur. 

There was nowhere- not in camp with John and Sadie and any of them nor in Wapiti among echoes of his childhood- where Charles felt more _right_ than alongside Arthur, no matter what it entailed. Nothing and no one else he wanted to keep in his life, where nothing good lasted long.

Lately, he wishes the circumstances of them spending time together could be a little less dire. He’s at camp when Dutch returns (without Arthur, he notes) and explains to him the story of another soured plan and the capture of Eagle Flies. Here, the tightly coiled control of the fury in his bones nearly breaks loose, because how _dare_ Dutch keep meddling in the middle of a mess he had no right to be in, all for the sake of some _distraction_ so he can make his own selfish escape. He hardly hears anything after Dutch tells him to scout the fort and meet Arthur at the reservation, and he has to keep reminding himself to stay collected and calm for the sake of peace.

It’s nearly a relief to see Arthur a few days later, if not for the grim line of his face that Charles knows is reflected on his own.

The ride to the fort is equally grim, if not more. The rage that is harbored over Dutch simmers under his skin. He starts speaking before he’s fully formed his thoughts and he feels his frown deepen the further he gets and before he knows it, there’s a spark of frustration at Arthur, too- for being so stubborn and blindly loyal to a fading ideal- but he knows it’s weaker than the rest of the smoldering embers of anger at Dutch’s manipulation and the ever encroaching endangerment brought on by the Pinkertons and even the army for all it does against Rains Falls and the rest of the Nations (and what they did to his own tribe, his own mother, all those years ago).

“He’s not helping that tribe, he’s helping himself. You _see_ that, or you wouldn’t have gone to Rains Fall behind his back,” Charles continues, guiding Taima down tight turns as they descend towards the river.

“I guess I just keep thinkin’... there must be a way to save the situation- to pull Dutch out of the place he’s in and… well, I… I like Rains Fall.”

“I don’t know, Arthur. Rains Fall is in a tough situation, and as for _Dutch-“_

“I gotta try. I owe him that, at least.”

 _No you don’t,_ Charles wants to say- to shout, scream it until Arthur realizes he doesn’t have to build his entire world around a man that would have sooner left him for dead on more than once recent occasion. Charles chalks it up to the fact that he ran alone for so long, but he can hardly understand the loyalty keeping Arthur so deeply set in his ways.

He changes the subject before he says anything more about it, sure that it would end nowhere but pain and frustration for the both of them. Loyalty to Dutch had already cost Arthur at least one relationship, and he’d be damned if he let the mustachioed faux king come between them.

“You feel that? There’s rain on the wind.”

“I know,” Arthur says behind him, though he sounds distracted enough that Charles glances back at his companion. “Listen, Charles… If it goes bad in there… You get yourself out. You got… more to lose.”

Taima stops beneath him before Charles fully realize he’s asked for it. Hercules follows suit, pawing at some loose pebbles under his hooves. Below them, the river rumbles.

“No. Come on, don’t start talking like that,” he stares resolutely at the auburn shine of Taima’s mane, untrusting of his ability to look in Arthur’s eyes when he’s so afraid of the words that may tumble out of his mouth. There’s quiet between them for a moment, and Charles hears Arthur take a deep (if not a bit rattling) breath.

“I didn’t tell you before, but… I saw a doctor. It ain’t good, and it’s gonna get worse.”

In through his nose, out through his mouth. Charles takes a moment to absorb the information and the confirmation that Arthur’s health was on an incline as steep as the cliff path down towards the river. Half a dozen questions form a frenzy in his mind, _what did the doctor say, exactly? Is it treatable? How long do you have? How long do_ we _have?_ He pushes them aside for another time.

“Oh, Arthur,” he glances back at the man- shielding his expression beneath that battered hat of his- and then ahead as he nudges Taima onwards down the path again, “any day we can die. We’re riding to break an Indian Chief’s son out of a cavalry fort- we could both die tonight. In a way, it is a gift to know… it gives you time- a chance- to make amends, to live each day and do _better_. The others Hosea, Lenny, Sean, all them. They didn’t. And what about the Callander boys? A more vicious pair of bastards there never was, and that’s all they ever were and will be.”

“Maybe,” his voice is distant as Hercules comes to a stop beside Taima at the rocky shore of the river. Charles gazes at the rushing of the water, the fish flitting in between ripples and shadows, the pirouettes of bubbles rippling on the surface.

“Every day is a chance to do something better… but, Arthur…” he turns, then, stares at the rim of Arthur’s hat until it lifts and he meets the man’s eyes at last, “I _see you_ , I know you’re a good person. Look at everything you’ve done in the past few months, all the people you’ve helped. Hell, look at where you are _now_. You think you need a death sentence to change and be a better man? I think you’ve always _been_ that man, deep down.

And… if it goes bad in there, I’m not leaving without you. I have _you_ to lose.”

•••

Hamish Sinclair is a man with a grumpy face and a matching attitude to boot, but humor hid in his eyes, a familiar sort of wisdom lined every word, and beneath it all was a peaceful man who’d faced and survived more than a fair share of violence and come that much kinder for it.

He reminded Arthur a lot of Hosea.

Maybe that’s why it was so easy, taking up the veteran’s offer of fishing after fetching Buell - a mean but beautiful beast if Arthur had ever seen one. Hercules had bowed to the older stallion almost instantly, sensing the authority and grace the steed demanded that echoed that of his owner. 

Easier still to sit in the idyllic cabin on the edge of a wild lake, surrounded by untouched nature, and let pent up words and memories tumble out to someone partial but sympathetic, who accepted him without hesitation and provided some odd sense of stability in a life being shaken loose.

He tells Hamish more than he probably should, but there’s something so achingly comforting about fishing with him, tracking and hunting magnificent wolves, and spending time with someone without the pressures of Dutch and the Law and Time itself closing in on him dislodges something within Arthur.

Hosea would’ve retired like this, Arthur decides. Beautiful cabin in the wild, a lake to fish from and mountains to hunt in.

Arthur wouldn’t have minded something like this for the end of his own days, neither, if he’d had a choice regarding the matter. Though, if he _did_ have anything to say about it, he wouldn’t be quite as alone as Hamish seemed to be (excluding equine company, of course).

 _“Weren’t always alone,”_ Hamish had said when Arthur had asked, _“had a partner, once.”_

The words were softer than Arthur had anticipated, weighted with a strange fondness and grief and something else entirely.

With a pang, Arthur realizes they had more in common besides fishing and hunting and whiskey.

Though it doesn’t come as much of a surprise, finding Hamish curling in on himself at the end of a series of gunshots and the scream of an angry hog sends a fresh- but not altogether unfamiliar - pang of grief through his gut. He kills the damned oversized pork, but still, it’s _too late_. Another man gone, another _friend_ lost to the dust and the blood, another life Arthur could not protect.

He’s only comforted slightly by the look that had been in Hamish’s eyes just before the light drained from them- it wasn’t one of regret or sorrow, but a strange contentment- relief at having lived long and well, doing the things he loved even on his last day, a friend at his side, the knowledge his horse would be taken care of.

Buell pins his ears back at Arthur and snorts a challenge at his approach, but there’s little fight when Arthur finally picks up his reins. He’ll ride the cremello stallion down to the stables down in Scarlet Meadows where he’d gotten Hercules, where he knows the owner will take dutiful care of the horse. 

He buries Hamish on a rise overlooking the lake. The sunset presents itself as Arthur stakes a relatively simple wooden cross into the soil- brushstrokes of orange and pink blending into the darkening blues of the sky. As nice a place for eternal rest as any, surrounded by the sun and her gifts, the crying wolves and the graceful moon and the endless stars.

Arthur can only hope his own inevitable grave is just as peaceful. 

•••

_Fire._

It’s everywhere, on either side of him- flickering up and consuming the skyline, spreading across the oilfields and the wooden beams with a ferocity that matches the whizzing and cracking of bullets.

It’s in his lungs, too, spreading out to the tips of his fingers and clutching a heated rifle and invading his mind as he runs from cover to cover, embers flying and bullets crashing and blood staining the ground where men fall. In his veins as he catches glimpses of his people, fighting alongside him- _‘We ride with you’._

It’s in Charles’ eyes when they meet across the field of chaos, metal casings on the ground and oil staining their boots.

It’s a fight like none Arthur can remember, and it’s a fight for something bigger than Arthur could imagine. The army reinforcements rain down on them with all the fury of a hurricane and they fall like the rain that follows.

His ears are still ringing when the shooting slows and he finds Dutch once more.

There’s fire there, too, in the twitch of the man’s brow and the bite of his words. It had been comforting, once, the warmth of Dutch van der Linde was a hard-won gift that Arthur had spent most of his life chasing.

But even Icarus’ wings melted when he got too close.

There’s fire again, fresh men storming the factory as Dutch and Arthur make their escape and it’s so _close-_

A bullet and a burst pipe, steam spitting out and a sudden weight on his chest, a glint of a knife aimed at his chest- the clinking of spurs as his fabled savior turns and walks away.

It _burns_ , but there’s a deep-set chill seeping into his bones and everything comes crashing into motion once more. It’s Eagle Flies that saves his life, trading his own for it- believing that “ _it’s as it should be”-_ but is it?

An entire lifetime spent in Dutch’s shadow, seeking his approval even when it meant getting blood on his hands and doing things mean enough to make milk curdle. Everything he’d done in the name of Van der Linde and even after all that, even after calling Arthur _‘son’_ , he walked away.

He’d never felt his foolishness was a heavy as curse as he felt it now, with Eagle Flies’ blood seeping into his back and the fire burning behind them, still. He’d seen Dutch’s downward spiral continue and worsen over the past few months, and yet he followed anyway- now Eagle Flies had a hole in his middle and many of his men lay dead in the burning battlefield. Perhaps this fight between the Natives and the army was inevitable, but Dutch’s behavior certainly expedited the crisis- using it for his own gain.

Either way, the people of the Wapiti were not the first to be wronged by Dutch.

Twenty years as the backbone of the gang, the enforcer and protector of a vagrant family- _his_ family- they’d all fallen far from where they used to be, and farther still from where most of them deserved. Like Eagle Flies and the men who’d died fighting and those still waiting on the reservation, they deserved _better._

Charles is a silent storm beside him, and Arthur aches. He apologizes, to himself or to Eagle Flies or to Charles or perhaps to God himself, he doesn’t know.

Once, there had been reason for fighting, reason for following Dutch and his words and rules and dreams- lines set that he’d always taught never to cross.

When had they stopped following those lines? How long ago had they left them behind in the dust? _“The time has come for us to draw our own lines, Arthur. Decide where we go from here,”_ Charles says and the weight of them hit Arthur nearly as hard as a brick.

Once, Dutch would never have left his men behind. But if it hadn’t been for Eagle Flies, Arthur would be dead. They all knew it. Even the horses knew it.

If Arthur had been walking on thin ice before this, he has finally been plunged into water so frozen it burns. If Arthur had needed any confirmation that Dutch was beyond saving, he’d found it in that damned factory, at the cost of Eagle Flies’ life.

Another one Arthur could not protect.

Wapiti is quiet when they ride in, quieter still when Rains Fall sees them, quietest when they step away from a grief deeper than any lake or sea when Eagle Flies’ hand goes limp in his father’s hold.

He follows Charles to the edges of the village as someone begins to sing a song of mourning, the weight of the night on their shoulder, and Arthur _aches._

Weeks, months, maybe even years of a feeling of impending doom has come to this- and Arthur has a feeling this is only the precipice of the end.

“What are they gonna… do now?” Arthur asks, voice hoarse and tired and a little lost.

“They must move… and fast,” Charles sniffs, and the look Arthur finds on the man’s face when their eyes meet tears at his chest more than any of his coughing has the past few weeks. It is a gaze of determination and sorrow, self-sacrifice for the sake of something bigger than themselves, an honor as ingrained into him as his scars, “I’ll stay and help them.”

“Yeah, I’ll stay too,” Arthur says, without thinking, without even considering the possibility of going anywhere without Charles.

“Oh, Arthur…” A heavy weight settles on his shoulder-Charles’ hand, warm and solid and trembling just a little- and a heavier weight settles in his heart- Charles’ eyes, glossy with unshed tears and a look more heartbroken than Arthur would’ve ever wanted to see.

Arthur is shaking his head before Charles even continues, _knowing_ what that look meant- _We both know you can’t-_ and not wanting to believe it. “You have others who need you. Good people.”

He looks away, _has to_ , because he can’t bear that look on Charles face without wanting to scream at the sky and curse the world for all its shadows.

“I… Charles- I don’t-“ _I don’t know what to do. I can’t say goodbye to you. I need you. I need you. I love you._

He’s pulled in tightly by Charles’ hold, so familiar, so _missed_ in these long weeks they’d barely seen each other, held each other. Charles is solid around him, if maybe a little shaky at the edges. Arthur himself feels like a piece of stone being chipped away by a chisel, piece by piece by piece, his entire sense of self crumbling in the wake of Dutch’s steps and everything _else_ he’d allowed to happen- and now he was losing Charles, just how he knew he would eventually and-

“This isn’t goodbye, Arthur. I promised you I’d stay, but,” he pulls back, heavy hands cupping Arthur’s face- fierce and tender all at once, as if reading the storm hiding behind Arthur’s eyes and anchoring him before he lost himself to it, “I need to get these people over the mountains, get them somewhere safe, and then I’m coming back, you hear me? I’ll find you, and I’ll never leave you again.”

“ _Okay,_ ” Arthur nods, biting back the breaks in his chest, gripping Charles’ shirt with a matching intensity, “okay. I hear you. I’m gonna hold you to that, Mister Smith.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less of you, Mister Morgan,” Charles cracks perhaps the smallest and briefest of smiles- something equal parts relieved and mournful and hopeful.

“This next train job…. This is it, I can feel it, it’ll all be over after this one. I’ll make sure John and the rest get out, and then we’re _gone_... The loft off the mountain path, north of O’Creagh’s-“

“I’ll find you,” Charles confirms, “just _be there_.”

“Charles, if I don’t-“

He’s interrupted by a loaded press of lips to his own, the first true kiss they’ve shared in _weeks_ since Arthur’s reluctance to get too close lest he pass on whatever illness was wasting him away.

“I’ll find you,” Charles repeats, and Arthur- perhaps a bit selfishly, a bit stupidly- lets himself believe he’ll be there to be found at all.

•••

Two days pass ahead of the train job. Charles had been briefed on it when the plan had first been set, was supposed to be a part of it until that day on the oilfield and the promises that had taken him away from the gang and to Rains Fall and the remainder of his people.

Two days spent packing up whatever wasn’t nailed down, making hasty sleds and protecting the newly made refugees alongside the few warriors that remained. His heart had ached the entire time, from the moment Arthur reluctantly rode away on Hercules, to the funeral of Eagle Flies and the other lost souls of that night, for Paytah and the hollow look in his eyes that feels like something Charles might be all-too-likely to echo soon enough, and on each step he took further away from where he truly longed to be.

It’s the two longest days he can remember. Rains Fall pulls him aside, when they finally descend into a new valley and onto fresh country, and thanks him for all that he’d done- tells him to go back, then, to his own people.

And then Charles _rides_ , pushes Taima as far as she lets him- and push she does. She runs over the earth with all the thunder stored in the sky, wind whipping and running alongside them. Charles _tries_ not to think of the last time they’d ridden so hard- that dark night in which Charles wasn’t sure if he was riding to find someone living or someone to bury. He _tries_ not to think how, again, he is not sure of what he will find- only that he _will_ find Arthur, and he hopes- prays to gods he doesn’t believe in- that he’s not too late.

He reaches the loft on the third day, just after the sun sets in the horizon. If his calculations had been right, the train robbery would’ve gone off by now, and Arthur should have gotten John, Abigail, Jack, the women, and himself away from the sinking clutch of Van der Linde’s claws.

If everything had gone well, Arthur would be there, sketching something in his journal over a crackling fire, a grin playing on his lips and sparkling in his eyes.

The cabin is empty. No fire at the woodstove or outside in the firepit. Last time they’d passed through- the last hunting trip they managed to squeeze in before everything went completely to hell- it’d been all but abandoned.

It looked much the same, now.

He doesn’t let his breathing hitch just yet. Doesn’t let his mind succumb to any of the worst conclusions straight away. He takes controlled breaths and _tries_ to ignore the rolling pit in his stomach, the tightness in his chest, the irrefutable feeling that _something is wrong_ that all but screams in every fiber of his being. Taima snorts from where she’s hitched, and he rumbles his agreement.

He doesn’t quite believe himself either.

Instead, he finds a seat on one of the logs outside the loft, near enough to Taima he can hop on at a moment’s notice but settled enough to perhaps trick himself into resting for a minute.

A minute is all he gets before he hears gunshots- distant, sure, but _uninterrupted_. He springs to his feet and runs to the top of the rise the loft is built on, straining his eyes to see through the dusk towards the sound of the commotion.

South and to the east.

Roughly, the direction of Beaver Hollow, and as a few seconds of processing pass, the noise seems to get closer.

He’s back on Taima in the next few seconds, tearing down the hill as fast as Taima’s sure feet will carry her- he takes care not to ask for too much on the uneven ground, twists and carefully counterbalances his weight to keep her steady as she clambers downwards with all the grace she can muster.

By the time he reaches the mountain path, he can see distant flashes of gunpowder and hear the pounding of hooves mingling in with bright, sharp _cracks_ of bullets.

He dismounts before he gets too close, slinging his bow over his shoulder and double-checking his ammunition before sending Taima away and running through trees to the sounds of chaos.

The forest is dense, here, before it strips itself away to rocky hills and peaks. He hides in the cover of the underbrush, taking in as much of the scene ahead of him as he can without being spotted.

The moon is surprisingly bright, far above him. Stars have dimmed in her light and not even the clouds dare interrupt the sky. Ahead of him he sees a group of riders, all sporting bowler hats and uniforms, backs poined at Charles and guns aimed somewhere on the other side of the rocky rise before they start to clamber uphill, yelling and chasing someone Charles cannot see.

He runs parallel to them, hidden in the forest still, eyeing them continue up the rise, noting how- one by one- they seem to fall by whoever’s hand it is they’re shooting at.

Charles only knows one man capable of making shots like that, at night, in uneven terrain. He can’t tell if his heart soars to his throat or plummets to his stomach, but either way he’s painfully aware of its beating in his ears.

There’s a break in the shooting, and Charles almost makes a run for the mountain- afraid of what he’ll find at the top but _sure_ that he needs to get up there.

He only makes it a few steps before he sees a figure clambering down, slipping on boulders and crashing into the underbrush.

On instinct, Charles reaches for his sawn-off. On second glance, he stops himself- recognizes the shape and gait of the man approaching-

“John?”

There’s a click of a revolver as John instinctively aims at the shadow emerging from the trees, but it’s lowered a heartbeat later with a relieved grunt and _“Charles??”_

He gives himself a moment to look the man up and down- his gun hand is once again raised but to press on a bleeding hole in his left shoulder, his face is haggard and there’s streaks of blood and dirt on his face, broken by tears he seems to refuse to acknowledge are even there, and on his head- a worn, scuffed and dented and sun-bleached leather hat, rope tassel and all, a familiar satchel swing over his shoulder resting at his hips.

“ _God damn it,”_ John chokes, and Charles reaches forward to clutch his good shoulder, words piling up in his throat, “Micah was a rat, Charles- everythin’ is gone to shit, Dutch left me for _dead. Again._ Fuckin…. Pinkertons raided camp, Micah shot Grimshaw, it’s a _mess,_ they shot our horses, now he’s up there and I-“

“Breathe John,” Charles squeezes his hand, a hopefully reassuring gesture- even if he felt like the earth was beginning to open up beneath him.

John makes a choked noise again, turning his head back up towards the tip of the mountain he’d just clambered down from. Charles follows his gaze, makes his own connections. _Probably sacrificed himself to give John a chance._ He takes another controlled breath, and looks around. A few of the Pinkerton horses have grouped themselves together in a wooded alcove, jigging in place with eyes wide and their tack all still attached.

“You have to get out, John. Arthur wanted you to get away from this, take one of those horses,” Charles shift, pushes the man onwards with little resistance. “Ride hard, stay safe, don’t look back.”

“Charles,” John’s hand comes out to clutch his arm, “get him out, too.” Charles nods before bringing them together in a brief but strong hug before turning and sprinting up the mountain.

He’s starting to hear fresh horses, more shouting and braying and hoofbeats coming up from the roads below. His heart hammers in his ears, still. There’s voices up ahead, up and around a rocky outcropping, and Charles takes a pause to take stock.

Before he can make out any words, there’s more scuffling and distant Pinkerton shouts, followed quickly by footprints rapidly slipping down the rocks and boulders _straight towards him_.

Somehow, he manages to slip into a crag, sinking deep into his ankles and blending into the shadows- and he sees a man come down the narrow barely-there foot path.

Dutch Van der Linde passes by without even a spare glance in the direction of Charles’ hiding place, and the sight of him sends a sharp bolt of fury and disappointment and _rage_ down his spine- but he holds his position.

He waits another heartbeat before venturing back out, stopping and hiding himself behind another boulder when he hears Pinkerton voices a little too close for comfort, just above him on that same rocky outcrop he’d been aiming for.

Close enough, in fact, to make out words.

“Where’d they go??”

“Looks like they split off! You go left, after Bell, we’ll go after Van der Linde!”

“And what about this fucker?”

“Let him rot.”

“Don’t wanna shoot him, boss?”

“He ain’t deservin’ of that mercy. Go!”

Charles bites his tongue, holds his breath until the Pinkertons pass by him- as unaware of his presence as Dutch had been- chasing after their prey like hounds on a scent trail.

Another heartbeat passes- too slow- and Charles finally clambers up the final bend and rise to the outcrop and suddenly, it feels like his heart stops beating all together.

Barely recognizable beyond the bruising and the swelling and the blood, no familiar hat on his head, well-worn jacked scuffed and stained with dirt and more- Arthur Morgan rests on the ground, tilting his head just barely towards the east where the horizon is beginning to lighten with the dawn’s smile.

Charles is frozen for what feels like an eternity, is more like a few seconds, until he sees the almost imperceptible rise and fall of Arthur’s chest. He’s fallen to his knees beside Arthur’s prone form before he even registers the movement, one hand carefully cradling the back of his head while he lowers his ear to the man’s chest- just to hear a heartbeat.

It’s there, faint and tired as his breathing, but it’s there.

“Arthur,” he murmurs, bringing the man into his lap and brushing the backs of his fingers against a bruised cheek, “ _Arthur.”_

Slowly, after a painfully long pause that threatens to stop Charles’ own hearbeat all over again, Arthur blinks open an eye- only one, the other being swollen shut by a merciless beating that makes Charles’ blood boil.

“Charles-“ his voice is shot to hell, rougher than the ground beneath them and just as coarse, “y’ found me.”

“I found you,” a flood of emotion nearly brings him to tears- both relief and joy at finding him alive but also rage and sadness and _grief_ at finding him just a little _too late_. He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to Arthur’s forehead.

“’M so lucky,” Arthur breathes, closes his eyes again like keeping them open was a herculean effort to start with, “to… have loved you, ‘s long as I got to.”

“Stop talking,” Charles murmurs back, fixing him with a hard stare he knows Arthur can’t see but will still _feel_ , “We still have more time.”

“I tried,” Arthur continues, breathing shallow and wheezing on each exhale, “I really tried, in the end.” Charles frowns, pushes down the ache in his chest, because _it’s not over yet._

“It ain’t the end yet, now- shh, save your strength.”

“Charles?”

“I’m here.”

“You’ll stay with me?”

“Always, Arthur, always.”

Dawn breaks over the tree line, a beautiful smile of pink and gold and periwinkle blue. Birds start to sing as they greet the sun and each other. There are no more gunshots in the valley, no screaming and shouting and chasing, nothing save for the melody of a fresh start and a new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey folks this fic ain't dead yet! this took me way too long to write, but i'd start and then i'd get sad because writing the events of chapter 6 is just UGH and i wanted to bang it out all in one chapter instead of splitting it and making this long fic even longer (not to say that that's a bad thing, but we still have a whole epilogue to get through lmao)  
> a few notes-
> 
> -medical accuracy? nah  
> -charles is a saint  
> \- HAMISH IS GAY you can't change my mind  
> \- actually, everyone is gay. who am i kidding. this is fanfic, babey  
> \- Paytah and Eagle Flies deserved MORE


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the recovery: part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta read by the wonderful [ @pipdepop!](https://pipdepop.tumblr.com/) thank you for being a fresh set of eyes xx 
> 
> originally this chapter was a whole lot longer but then it started to get TOO long so i split it in half (since i am still working on the second half of this monster)

_He couldn’t remember the last real meal he’d eaten. All he knew was hunger- a stomach so tight it stuck to his spine and felt just about ready to devour itself unless Arthur got his hands on something more solid than a half-rotten apple, and soon._

_He pushes his father’s hat up higher on his head after a particularly heavy sigh had let it slide down over his brows. He hadn’t grown into it just yet, much to his dismay._

_No matter, there were other things of his father’s that Arthur_ had _grown into- skills and knowledge so ingrained it felt as natural as breathing._

_His fingers had only gotten stickier since Lyle Morgan had swung from the gallows. If Arthur hadn’t known any better, he’d say his thieving career was already proving itself to be more lucrative than Lyle’s ever was._

_(To his credit, he hadn’t known much better back then.)_

_But it’d been a while since he picked his last pocket, and he’d run into trouble and had to move on to the next hobunk town with barely more than the clothes on his back. So, with an empty stomach and tacky fingers and a slightly too-big hat, Arthur sets off. He waits, first- just like he’d been taught- wait and watch, see people and their patterns, who goes where and says what, who slips by unseen, who presents himself so ostentatiously it’s almost funny._

_Who’s watching someone else._

_A tall man with dark hair and a strong profile has been leaning on the side of the saloon for nearly as long as Arthur has been watching from the alleys. There’s a cigar in his mouth and a newspaper held in front of his face- but his eyes are watching that pretty lady with chestnut hair that’s fanning herself, leant near the doorway of that same saloon. There’s a flash- gold on the man’s fingers, on the front of his vest glittering off a chain attached to a watch. He’s got a satchel slung over his shoulder, long strap crossing over his chest and coming to rest easily at his hip._

_Arthur watches, and waits._

_With a final puff of his cigar, the man moves- snapping the paper shut like he’s trying to be casual while still catching the attention of the chestnut-haired broad._

_And like the clockwork on that pretty little watch tucked into the man’s pockets, Arthur moves too- slinking out of the alley and blending into the crowd on the street, circling his target like he’d seen a cat circle a mouse in a barn, once- going wide and parallel before closing in. He’s hiding in the shadow of a group of men (ranchers, he’d guess, if their stink was anything to go by) when he makes his approach._

_Mister dark-hair-and-gold-rings strikes up a conversation with the woman, a smirk teasing his lips, spouting words that Arthur knows must have come straight out of some sort of flowery book. Whatever it is about the man, the woman eats it up, laughing behind her fan and swatting at his arm when he makes a particular risqué joke._

_Neither of them notice Arthur slipping closer and closer still, bringing out his knife in the same movement as his footsteps as he reaches for those stupidly long straps of the satchel and then, in one easy motion, it’s loose and in his clutch._

_Arthur turns, weight in the balls of his feet as he pushes away from a startled “What the hell?!” but the man is too late. Arthur clutches the satchel to his chest and_ runs-

_straight into the outstretched leg of another man, who’d been silently watching the entire scene unfold from the other side of swinging saloon doors._

_He falls on his face with an undignified thud and feels the skin on his chin split open, staining the wooden slats with his blood. The press of a boot comes to rest in between his shoulder blades. His hat flies off ahead without him._

_“I think you’re losing your edge, Dutch! This kid just robbed you blind.”_

_“Oh Hosea, I knew you were watching my back. I only let him_ think _he’d gotten away with it. Was all a part of my plan, you see.”_

_“Ah yes, of course, how could I forget.”_

_Arthur is just thinking all the ways he can escape between where he is now and the gallows he’ll surely be sent to before he’s tugged up by his suspenders, dribbling red down the front of his shirt._

_A blonde man with cheekbones sharp enough to split a log and piercing eyes to match regards him for a second, taking in the skinny arms, legs and the more-dust-than-cloth getup, the scowl Arthur is trying valiantly to make seem as intimidating as he can muster even as he bleeds freely. Without a word, he holds out a hand, gesturing for Arthur to hand the satchel over just as Mr.Ladies-man (Dutch, he supposes) steps around the pair of them, fetching Arthur’s hat from the ground before returning to face the delinquent himself._

_Arthur holds out the satchel just long enough for both men to relax before reaching for it._

_As soon as they do, he tucks it back close to his side and takes off, laughing maniacally at the flash of disbelief and shock that had appeared on both men’s faces just the second before._

_“Goddamn it, kid, come back here!”_

_The chase doesn’t last long, of course. Arthur’s legs may be tall and gangly, but he’s weak with hunger and the still bleeding cut on his chin, and both the men chasing him must be in something like the prime of their life- all muscles and anger as they chase down the street rat with their belongings._

_To his surprise, they don’t kill him when the blonde one tackles him to the ground._

_More to his surprise, they start laughing._

_“Fine! Fine, take it back, misters- I won’t bother you no more- just lemme go-“ he wriggles against the ground, pushing out the satchel from beneath him and bucking against the weight of a grown man sitting on his legs._

_“Oh, no, I think you’ll bother us plenty,” the man supposedly called Dutch laughs, scooping up the bag and dusting it off, “what do you think, Hosea?”_

_“I think we’d be better off gettin’ a dog.”_

_“Aw, c’mon- he’s got some promise! Nearly had us, for a second. Imagine what he could do under your wise tutelage and my… invigorating rhetoric!”_

_“Hm.”_

_The weight is lifted off Arthur, and once again he’s tugged up to his feet- a little dustier than before, a lot more embarrassed than he’d admit, and still just as hungry._

_“What’s your name, boy?” The blonde one- Hosea?- regards him once more. Arthur feels the way a rabbit must, under the cutting gaze of a fox._

_“Morgan,” he doesn’t know why he answers, something about the entire interaction with the man he was going to rob and his apparent partner has been nothing like Arthur was expecting, “Arthur Morgan.”_

_“That your real name?”_

_“Yessir.”_

_“When’s the last time you ate?”_

_“…”_

_“One meal,” Hosea says, pointing a finger in warning at Arthur as his eyes widen in surprise, "and let's get that chin looked at." The man’s words, though they come out vaguely threatening, are layered with something else Arthur might call warmth or kindness if the notion of those two things aimed at him wasn’t so damn... ludicrous._

_“We’ll make you a proper man of you yet, kid,” Dutch grins, and hands Arthur his hat back._

_He doesn’t move for a moment, takes the hat dumbly and puts it on his head, and only flinches a little when Dutch moves around him with an arm around his shoulder and more reassuring words on his tongue._

_And for whatever reason Arthur can’t find any reasonable explanation for, Arthur follows._

_•••_

She’s just about to sit and eat her supper- a wild turkey she’d shot when she’d gotten bored of rabbit again and again- when she hears them.

Gunshots, somewhere in the valley. Far away, but certainly close enough that her appetite flies out the window and pushes her rifle back into her hands.

The Murfree’s hadn’t given Charlotte too much trouble in a while, but somehow, she doubts that this was their doing. She pulls a chair to the window, parks herself with her weapon loaded and ready, and waits.

The past few weeks had seen an evolution to Charlotte Balfour. She’d been a hungry, grieving, helpless widow before. Now, she was still a widow and her grief had not yet completely faded- but she was not hungry, and she was far from helpless.

And though perhaps she wishes she could’ve had the guts and the drive to instill that change in herself with no outside influence- she knew she had but one strange man to thank for it. Arthur Morgan had looked like the kind of man that might have come to rob her, pillage what remained of her homestead and do unspeakable things to her body like she, too, was a pretty treasure he could claim- but he only had to open his mouth and say only a few words in that cowboy drawl of his for her to realize that a book should never be judged by its cover. He’d only come to see her a few times, but it hadn’t taken her long to open her door and make friends with the man. Perhaps she’d been more desperate for companionship than she realized.

Perhaps, he needed it just as much as she did.

They hadn’t talked much about his life, but Charlotte fancied herself as a decently educated woman- thank you very much- who could make educated guesses. She’d gone into town, after all, had seen the wanted posters with a familiar face on them.

He had a heavy look about him- tense shoulders, sad (but kind, beneath it all) eyes, and of course- that terrible cough that had sent him straight to her kitchen floor. (Honestly, she still doesn’t quite know how she managed to lug him to the guest bedroom, deadweight as he was while unconscious.) Arthur didn’t look all too old, but Charlotte would’ve guessed he’d lived more lives and seen more darkness than most men managed in a single lifetime.

Most of all, he looked tired, like he knew his end was near and he could do nothing more than accept it when it came.

As she watches the woods, the birds scattered in the sky- frightened by the cacophony of gunshots- she thinks of him.

And she hopes, though a part of her whispers its doubts, that he’s not involved in it.

The valley goes quiet, again, eventually. The sky is beginning to lighten, and another day is beginning without any more fuss- as if there weren’t surely a smattering of death somewhere in the forest, spread over the hills and rivers.

Reluctantly, she lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. No bullets have found their way anywhere near her, far as she can tell. Trouble hasn’t come this far into her corner of the wild. 

Still, though, she doesn’t relax. The sun is high in the sky by the time she forces herself to eat her dinner-turned-breakfast, but her rifle is still within arm’s reach.

For good reason, she decides, because she’s trying to trick herself into resting when she finally _does_ hear hoofbeats come far too close for her liking, and suddenly all the tension she’d been holding throughout the night snaps into place once again.

She picks up the rifle and stands in her doorway, daring trouble to disturb her peace.

Her defiance doesn’t last long, though, when she sees two men crammed on the back of one spotted horse, trotting up the road and stopping just before the archway leading to her land. One of the men- the one looking far more conscious than the other, raises a hand- palms out, shoulders tense, ducked head as if he’s trying to make himself look as least threatening as possible. She looks at the other one, _recognizes_ the shape of him, and by the time she hears the first feller speak she’s already walking out to meet them.

“Please- I mean you no trouble- I believe you know my friend…” the other man, now off his horse with his hands still raised in peace, turns to her. He’s got dark skin and dark hair and even darker circles under his eyes. He looks ragged, tired and worn as if he’s been pulled in every direction and pushed through, regardless. “My name is Charles Smith- he…we need your help, please.”

“Is that Arthur Morgan?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Bring him in, hurry.”

He visibly deflates in relief, watching her shoulder her rifle and lead them back to the house.

It’s another challenge, moving Arthur from the horse to the guest bedroom that may as well be his, now. Charlotte doesn’t know whether to be sick or to sob at the sight of him- beaten nearly beyond recognition, clothes dusted and stained, breath coming in ragged wheezes as if they’re being wringed out of his lungs.

And Charles, though he doesn’t look nearly as physically wounded, looks like he shares the pain as he carries Arthur’s weight over the threshold.

He doesn’t say much beyond a few questions regarding boiled water, or alcohol, or bandages of any kind. Though his movements around Arthur are smooth- as if they are practiced, something familiar and known to their bodies- there is a certain stutter in his breath whenever Arthur wheezes or coughs or groans in a particularly broken voice.

Charlotte feels useless, standing in the doorway to the guest room, watching Charles do what he can to ease Arthur’s pain. She fetches him what he needs when he asks- her sewing kit, with a grimace neither of them bother hiding, water, whiskey- and she doesn’t ask any questions even though her lips burn with them.

There’s a heaviness in the air, too, like there’s another presence hidden just in the corner of their minds; a ubiquitous little whisper telling them they’re only tending to a man already dead.

She’s not sure how much time passes, only that she’s begun making broth for later – she may not be of much medical use, but her mother had taught her to cook, at least. This, she could do. She’d tended to the horse- Taima, she’s told- a pretty little mare who looked about as stressed as her rider and huffs in relief at the offering of lush grass and some carrots.

Outside, the sun continues its merry journey across the sky. It’s a beautiful day out, Charlotte muses, just the right temperature and the perfect balance of early fall crispness and late summer warmth.

It seems at odds with what’s happening in her house, though. There’s a storm brewing there, in Charles’ eyes, as he discovers more and more injuries on Arthur’s prone form.

There’s something familiar about that. Charlotte finds herself thrown back into her own memories of caring for a dying loved one.

She’d never forget the feeling of her Cal’s blood on her hands as she desperately tried to keep him alive. The look on his face as the light left him still haunted her nearly every night. She knew the fear that came with watching her husband die- the love of her _life-_

She glances back at Charles, busy crushing some plants he’d retrieved from his saddle bag, and she sees that same kind of fear echoing in his eyes, too- in the twitch of his brow, the hitching of breath with each one of Arthur’s groans.

It feels like days later- it’s really only been a few hours- when Charles finally steps out, Arthur seemingly asleep or unconscious and about as bandaged and patched up as he could be. Silently, Charlotte fills a glass full of some old whiskey and pushes it across the table towards Charles- who shoots it back without a word- before sitting on a chair across from her with a sigh as heavy as the mountains.

“I, uhm-“ he clears his throat, dislodges something in his chest that had been tangled in his voice- “Thank you, I don’t know how to say it enough. I- we owe you a great debt.”

“Oh, please, there’s no need for that. Arthur saved my life in more ways than he knows… this- this is the least I can do. I’m just sorry I couldn’t’ve been of _more_ help.”

“He… Arthur, he spoke of you very fondly. I couldn’t think of anyone closer that could’ve helped us, and I don’t… I don’t know what would’ve happened if…” he falters again, scowling down at his hands where they were laying on the table.

“Mister Smith,” she soothes, “dare I ask… what happened?”

At this, he hesitates, flicking his gaze in Arthur’s direction. He scowls again, turning to his hands again and clenching his fists.

“I- I’m not too sure, actually. Family issues, I suppose.”

“Some family,” she huffs, and he nearly echoes a chuckle. She sees his shoulders soften the slightest touch. With a deep breath, he relaxes his hands again.

“I hate to ask- but there’s some… things I need to do. He’s resting now, do you think you could watch him for a few hours?”

“Of course, but- surely you need some rest too, Mr. Smith!”

“Charles, please,” he nearly smiles, “thank you, but this is something I have to do. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

He turns away before she can get a word in, and- with a final wary peek in Arthur’s room- is back out into the fading day and riding into the wood.

“Oh, _Cal_ ,” she mutters to the house, “what’ve I gotten myself into, now?”

•••

Breathe in, breathe out. Foot in the stirrup, light squeeze to get Taima going (much to her dismay). Follow the path to Beaver Hollow. Avoid main roads.

Charles does the things that need to be done. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t think much beyond what is immediate and needed. He keeps breathing, keeps moving, keeps _working_.

This was how he’d survived all his life, and it was how he would _keep_ surviving.

Detachment was easy, and when he separated himself from his emotions, he could do just about anything; Rob a train, slit a throat, carry a half-dead Arthur Morgan down a mountain and do whatever it takes to keep him alive. He’d filtered through his memories, finding one of Arthur mentioning a widow that lived nearby that had become a friend, in an unlikely but welcome sort of way. He’d set course for Willard’s Rest, praying to whoever would listen that he could find someone trustworthy- the odds of Arthur living and the both of them getting _out_ were heavy burdens on Charles’ chest, and he knew they both needed help.

He’d seen Old Boy first, on his initial clamber down that cursed mountain. He’d almost missed the corpse of John’s horse- so focused on keeping Arthur in his hold down the rocky hillside without putting too much pressure on his collage of injuries. Spotting Hercules on his other side brought a jolt like a bolt of lightning down his spine.

It hurt, seeing Arthur’s horse dead and still bleeding on the ground while Arthur himself seemed a breath away from joining him. Hurt more than Charles could process, so he’d torn his eyes away and kept moving.

He’d made a note to himself, to go back to that damned mountain later, if only to pick a horseshoe to keep in memory and find anything left of value tucked into his saddlebags.

Beaver Hollow was closer though, and he knew he had to go there first. Taima pins her ears back as soon as she recognizes the terrain, and Charles can still smell the blood and the gunpowder hanging in the air.

He finds Susan, just as he’d expected. There’s Pinkerton bowlers strewn about, too, but Charles guessed they’d already been through to pick up the bodies of their own. He wraps her in a piece of canvas and looks at what’s left of their camp.

Detachment helps here, too, walking among tents and wagons that were torn and raided and unrecognizable where they once were familiar. This, the leftovers of the gang that had put it up, had been his home for the past year, which wasn’t saying much- Charles hadn’t ever stayed in one place or with any one group for more than a couple months for the better part of two decades. To even think of a group of people as family and the place in which they all lived as a home was a fantasy to Charles for the large portion of his life. He looked to where his bedroll used to be, to the remains of the chuckwagon and the campfires, to Arthur’s blue wagon, and he found himself mourning this loss more than he’d expected to.

He barely bothers looking for anything of value, since the camp looked more looted already than not, but he finds other things- mementos, pictures, objects of sentimentality that would have no worth to anyone other than the owners of it. He collects his own things, first- few as they were. The photo of him and his parents, some worn out books, the bison drawing Arthur gave him so long ago.

Arthur’s lean-to was mostly still intact, much to his shock. It looks odd, waiting there as if Arthur himself will walk up and collapse on his cot just as he had a thousand times before. Charles takes down the tacked-up pictures (although he tries not to look at the photo of Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea- ghosts of their younger selves that no longer existed in this world), the odd little flower in a jar he always kept on the table, Boadicea’s old shoe. He can’t help but feel he’s picking up lost pieces of Arthur’s own soul.

He doesn’t even know if the man will want them, only that Charles can at least offer the _option_ of keeping memories of his past lives, instead of leaving them behind to fade into dust.

He buries Miss Grimshaw on a ridge overlooking the river. A pretty enough spot, though he suspects she’d complain about it if she had the chance. He stands in front of her grave for as long as it takes to collect his breathing and give her the moment’s respect she deserves. She’d been a salty woman, not one he’d say he was particularly close to, and perhaps he disagreed with the way she treated some of the girls- but she’d been the matriarch that the gang sorely needed, and it was her that kept them clean and civil even when it seemed like a lofty goal. She’d taken each random plot of wilderness they claimed for their campsites and made it into something like a home.

In the end, she deserved more than buckshot to the gut. But hadn’t they all deserved better?

He puts one foot in front of the other before he can spiral into his thoughts any deeper.

Inhale, exhale, swing into the saddle, follow the road north.

The path is a mess of hoofprints- digging into the dirt where horses had carved their gallop. The shiny casings of bullets litter the ground much like the leaves tend to in this time of year, Charles sees a few spots where it looked like a squirrel had picked one up only to toss it when it realized metal wasn’t edible. 

Underbrush gives way to stone, and when he looks up again he sees the dark splashes where blood had baked into the ground. Taima is restless beneath him, he knows she can smell what’s in the air. Charles may be able to control his own anxieties, he can rationalise the blood and death, but he knows she cannot- on account of being a horse, and all- and his soothing murmurs don’t mean much to the instinct born into her. He leaves her at the treeline before they approach the mountainside proper, sparing her from having to see any more death than she already had. He sets his sights on the flaxen tail of Old Boy and tries not to think too much about the next few things he’ll have to face.

He has to scare away some scavengers already picking away at the softer parts of the war horse’s features. Methodically, he uses his knife to wedge a horseshoe off. There’s nothing of note in the saddlebags save for some food, ammo, and some crumpled dollars, which Charles takes if only out of habit. Charles remembers when John had brought the horse to camp, how the massive thing had turned out to be one of the gentlest horses in the herd and how brave he had been in the face of a firefight. He’d been a good horse. 

The calm exterior Charles has been maintaining ripples now, kneeling where Hercules lay. He’d still been so young, and Arthur had loved him so dearly. The stallion was a quick learner, despite his goofy nature, and had brought a smile to Arthur’s face when even Charles couldn’t. The sun is setting, and normally that would’ve set his amber dapples ablaze, auburn mane glowing in the light, but now Hercules is a shadow- pale and bloodstained on crumpled legs that once had carried him like the wind. Charles wishes he’d have the time- and the strength, really- to build a cairn, a shallow grave even- for Hercules and Old Boy both. He’d been there the night Boadicea was lost- still remembered the rising desperation in Arthur’s whistles, and the heavy sadness that had fallen on his shoulders when they went unanswered. Hercules had filled a void in Arthur’s heart, and losing him so soon would only leave an even bigger tear in it now. 

Distantly, Taima huffs, and Charles realizes his face is wet with the tears he's been trying to keep at bay only after he’s worked off a shoe from Hercules. There’s more bullet casings here, too, and more blood leading up the mountain that would forever be carved into Charles’ memory. Whatever had happened here, it had been the final battle of a war that Charles was sure had no true victor- the end of a story left to be forgotten, tucked away in the memories of ghosts. He unclips Arthur’s saddlebags without going through them, and moves back towards Taima with more grief weighing down his heart.

She blows hot air and snot into his face when he comes, and though they are both nervous and exhausted, he finds it in him to press his face into her mane with a sad sort of smile. Through it all, she’d remained, and Charles knew he was more blessed to still have her than he probably deserved. His heart tears anew for Arthur, knowing he had seen his own horse go down and had more than likely not had a chance to say goodbye. The shoe Charles picked off would be a small consolation. 

It’s dark by the time he gets back to Willards Rest. He knows he’s been gone too long, and worry gnaws at him like a beaver on a log.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Charlotte- the fact she’d opened her door and let them in was a surprising act of trust not lost on him. She’d been kind, too, had taken care of Taima and given him nearly everything he’d needed to patch Arthur up as if he were some quilt.

Charles pauses when he reaches the house, lingering outside with Taima longer than it took to untack her and settle her down with soothing words and a handful of oatcakes. He leaves the saddlebags full of the things he’d collected-something to come back to later, when things were... well, ‘better’ would be a hopeful word.

There’s a shadow on him, he knows. Not the play between the moonlight and the swaying trees or the drifting clouds. It’s a heavy sort of thing with a very physical presence weighing down on his shoulders like a winter coat worn on a summer’s day.

Fear was an old, old friend to Charles. It had not come to visit him in some time, other than a few flashes here and there somewhere between Arthur being taken by the O’Driscoll’s and now.

It whispered in his ear now, told him he was about to open a door to a corpse, another grave he’d have to dig, a new ghost to lurk in the darkest corners of the night.

It reminded him that even if Arthur _didn’t_ die, even if his cough did subside and his wounds did close up- that he’d never be the same again. And how could he be? How could Charles expect him to wake up in the morning- injuries aside- and not feel as if the entire world had been ripped away from beneath him?

The gang was dead. Not every individual member of it, perhaps, but Arthur’s life as he’d known it for two decades was finished, everyone he’d ever cared about either buried or lost, everything he’d had probably looted and sold to the highest bidder already. He hadn’t even been able to keep his own horse.

Charles didn’t have to be much of a thinker to know that something like that could break a man.

But most of all, Charles is afraid there’ll be nothing he can _do,_ he doesn’t know what words Arthur needed to hear, or even if there was anything to be said in any language that could ease the pain he’d be in when he woke. Charles had probably saved his life, sure, but what was left of it?

Could Charles hope that his love for Arthur- the only thing he really could offer, at this point- would be enough?

Would Charles himself be enough?

Fear breathes down his neck, a cold trickle down his spine like the slow drip of sap from a tree.

He just doesn’t know. Charles is not a man that’s ever presumed to know what would happen next- he’d learned to take things as they come, adaptability for survival - but it had never scared him as much as it does now.

All he knows is Arthur is alive, battered and wasted with sickness, but alive nonetheless, and Charles loves him too much to do anything less than keep the man breathing- if only to keep _himself_ breathing, too.

Inhale, exhale, turn the handle, step through the door. Charles moves, and he works, and he survives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy times are coming, i promise. but also, angsty times are coming, so i'm sorry. 
> 
> also, i wanted to save Hercules- but it broke up the flow of the story and i found that it didn't really work so :( rip 
> 
> thank you all for sticking with this story! when i started it i didn't think i'd ever write so many words or post so many chapters and it's insane to me that it's come this far and that people have enjoyed it! overall, i think i'm going to end it at 20 chapters. Next chapter will be the recovery:part 2, and then we finally get to the epilogue and the happy times.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway you can find me on [tumblr](https://avatarrrkorra.tumblr.com/) and on my [art blog](https://emi-illustrates.tumblr.com/) (featuring mostly charthur, lately)


End file.
